


Bittersweet

by FedonCiadale



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8806564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FedonCiadale/pseuds/FedonCiadale
Summary: Jon Snow still has to come to terms with some aspects of his being king in the North





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously canon divergence after the season seven leaks. I wrote this for the Jonsa Winter challenge on Tumblr. I might continue this as a sequel to a fic I have in mind about the takedown of Littlefinger.

It was still dark, though dawn could not be far away. It was a clear night and there was enough light from moon and stars to walk along the battlements. Winterfell was quiet and Jon drew several breaths of the cold night air. They were three years into winter and if Maester Wolkan had it true, there were several years of winter yet to come. Jon was sure, that that it would be a long time until spring, maybe even twenty years.

Jon stood at the wall of the castle. The view from the castle was spectacular, the moon brought out the soft hills that surrounded Winterfell. _My kingdom._ Sometimes he still caught himself thinking that it all should belong to Robb, but three years had brought acceptance and the voice that kept telling him, that he was not the rightful ruler of Winterfell, crept up less and less. He had accepted many things, ruling Winterfell and the North and in a way even the constant threat of the White Walkers north of the Wall. With all the bannermen firmly under Stark rule, the wall was constantly watched and patrolled. The wall held and everybody had grown accustomed to constant vigil at the wall as well as patrol duty. Nobody doubted Jon or the Free Folk anymore.

Jon sighed. It did not worry him that the voice telling him that he was usurping Robb’s place grew fainter and fainter. He supposed that acceptance of his status as king was only to be expected. Robb had been dead six years, and Rickon three. No word had come to Winterfell of Bran, either. He was the last son of Eddard Stark and even he himself could not accuse himself of taking the North from his dead siblings. _I have wanted Winterfell all my life and now I have it._

He was far more worried that the other voices had become fainter as well. The voices that reminded him that there were some things he should not grow accustomed to. The questions in his head, when he looked at his sister and lost himself in her beauty, when he dreamt about her, when he craved her company and her rare touches, when her smile was meant for him alone. _What would father say? What would Bran or Robb say? What would Arya say?_ Sometimes he even wondered, what Lady Catelyn would say. But of late, he deliberately pushed these voices away and even indulged in thinking about Sansa in a way that he knew perfectly well that he should not. And most of the times he had stopped wondering what Sansa herself would say. There were days he was almost sure, that Sansa at least wold not react with disgust, if he ever spoke of his feelings, his desire, the constant want for her closeness. When he had first admitted to himself that his feelings for his half-sister were not appropriate, he had pictured her abhorred reaction and that had been useful to restrain him. Now, he was almost sure, that she would not push him away, if he stepped over the invisibly line that separated them. _I have a queen as well as a kingdom. They call her my Hand and lady of Winterfell, and we should not share a bed, even if we share the rule. But she is my queen._

He heard soft footsteps behind him, but he did not turn. He just knew, it was Sansa. He would recognize the sound of her step everywhere. He didn’t say anything in acknowledgement, instead he took of his gloves and put them on the side, his heart pounding in anticipation. He stamped on the faint voices reminding him of his dead siblings and his father. _What will she do?_ Sansa came to his right side and Jon felt a rush of blood in his ears, when she did as he had wanted her to do. She took her own gloves of and laid her hand on his. He turned to her, not feeling the cold air at all and smiled. “You are up early.” He raised his hands and took her hands between his. He ran his thumbs in her palms and began circling the skin of her hand, stroking her tenderly. Jon knew that he performed an intricate dance on the border of what might still be considered brotherly affection, that he even pushed at the limits he had set himself. But a part of him was immerged in the joy of the moment. “You should have slept in,” he said. “It will be a long day with all the petitions.” Sansa smiled. “No chance, the twins woke me up. There was no point going back to sleep. Marisa took them to the kitchen. Sometimes I think they eat more than me. I don’t know where they put everything they eat.” _Eddard and Rickon. My queen’s sons._ “I think they just eat to have the energy for asking questions all day long. They certainly do not put it into growing, they are still rather small.” Sansa laughed. “At least while they eat, they can’t ask questions. They wanted to pester their uncle, but I told them, that they should not wake Uncle Jon. If I had known you were up, I would have sent them to you and tried to sleep a little longer.” As much as Jon loved his little nephews, he was glad that they were not here to interrupt the intimacy of the moment.

He had not released Sansa’s hands and had turned towards her, their elbows almost touching. “Do you think they’ve inherited their curiosity from their father?” Even after almost three years the boys’ father, Sansa’s late (and third) husband of only a fortnight, was still a sensitive subject between them and Jon smiled, let go of one of her hands, and touched Sansa’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, so that she knew he was joking. Sansa rolled her eyes in answer to his question, but she turned her face just ever so slightly to the side, leaning into his featherlight touch. “I am quite certain about that. Nobody could ever say that Littlefinger was not clever. They both are clever, but not devious. I am sure, that we will raise them to be just as honourable as you are.” Jon let his fingers trail alongside Sansa’s cheek and touched the delicate skin just beneath her ear. “What will we tell them, when they ask about their father?” Sansa tilted her head and blinked, her eyes closed just a moment longer than usual, as if relishing the touch of his fingers. “At the moment they seem to think, that it is perfectly normal to just have a mother and an uncle. I don’t really know. How could I explain?” She made a face. “I married your father to lure him into a trap. I drove a dagger into his treacherous heart to save your uncle.” Jon smiled, his fingers trailing along Sansa’s neck.  “That sums it up nicely, I think.” Sansa squeezes his other hand. “They might even like the last bit. They absolutely adore you.” Jon nodded. “I adore them as well.” _I have heirs, but no sons. I have a queen, but no wife. Do the gods always give their gifts so twisted, if they give you what you want?_ Sansa scoffed. “You adore them! You’re spoiling them rotten.” Jon did not comment on that. Sansa probably had it right.

They stood in silence for a while, and Jon let his fingers wander to the tip of Sansa’s simple braid. He undid the ribbon, laid it to the side and began unbraiding Sansa’s hair. It felt so good, soft and silken, that he barely registered the cold, that crept up his unprotected fingers. “I dreamt of spring tonight”, he said. “You had flowers in your hair. Bright blue flowers the colour of your eyes.” _You were naked, your cheeks were flushed. You were warm in my arms, tender and passionate._ “When I woke, I was sad, that it was just a dream. But I was hopeful as well, that we may reach spring.” Jon freed Sansa’s hair from the rest of the braid and entwined his fingers into her red tresses. “That does not really make sense, does it?” Jon willed her to understand the things that he did not say. It seemed she did. She took his left hand into hers. “I dream of spring as well. Much too often. It is distracting, far too pleasant.” She smiled. “We shouldn’t think too much on what we want, I think I’m happy with what I have for the moment, for a day, for a year, even for years, as long as I have hope, that spring will come someday.” Sansa often said things like that. Jon had decided that she meant more than holding on against the threat of the Long Night. Jon nodded. “Hope is all we have. But it can safely lead you through one day, and then another. We’d better not look at the long stretch of winter before us. Family, duty, honour binds me as well as facing the winter”, she said. _I can manage a day not telling you how much I want you, how much I need you. And then the next day and the day after that._ “When spring comes and our hopes are not in vain, will you let me put blue flowers in your hair, Sansa?”, he heard himself ask. _Will you kiss me, will you hold me in your arms, will you make love with me?_ Sansa nodded and squeezed his hands. “I am yours to command, my king,” she said and smiled. Jon put his hand at the back of her neck, but caught himself just before he pulled her towards him. Reluctantly he disentangled his hand from her hair and stepped back a tiny step.

“Look”, he said. “A perfect sunrise.” The sun had indeed come up and the snow began to glitter and Sansa’s hair looked as if it had caught fire. Jon put his right arm around her and pulled her near to his side, his other hand still in her hands. He breathed in the smell of her hair and relished in their closeness. There were many days when he thought that the gods had given him nothing but bitterness and duty and the torture of a doomed love. He did not think so now. For once, this day had a sweet taste to it, a faint anticipation of spring and love fulfilled.


	2. The road to Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some refugees from the war-ridden Riverlands and elsewhere are on their way to the safety of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my other Jonsa fic "To go south" has grown much by now, I decided to continue with this fic as well. While "To go south" is coping my coping with the season 7 leaks, this fic, is a story that has been in my head since episode 10 of season 6 and if I'm honest a bit closer to my heart.  
> So I decided to continue this as well, before I forget all the wonderful dialogue I invented...  
> I also have a fic in my head about the events that led to Littlefinger's death, but you will have to wait for that one. In this chapter some of the things that happened in between "The winds of winter" and the first chapter are mentioned.  
> Please comment, if you like it or if you have ideas or questions! English is not my native tongue and if you find anything really weird, please tell me.

It was far too cold to travel alone, but the cold certainly had made a strange group of travelling companions. They had built a shelter of snow for the night and that usually worked well. Alys sat at the fire and studied the others with guarded looks. In a way, it was so strange that people would come from the south, because they heard that there was safety and justice and even a welcome for refugees in Winterfell, even if warmth presumably was not found there. Unlike most evenings that were spent in silence, this time they shared stories and things they had heard about the King in the North and his Lady Hand while they sat at the fire, and some even openly wondered about the reception they would get. Alys was certain that some of the others held close to their own secrets, just like she did. She had called herself Alys Snow when she finally had decided to join the group that hailed from the Riverlands, although she had been tailing at least some of them since she had left the Twins.

The fat black brother named Sam who had come all the way from Oldtown seemed nice enough and he had no secrets, not really. It was obvious, that Gilly was his woman, and that six-year-old Sam and the chubby girl Melessa were their children, even if that should not have been possible. It was possible now, as Sam claimed. He had told them that the King in the North had made a new decree: The King in the North wanted the black brothers to know what they were fighting for. Any black brother might marry and get children if he petitioned at Winterfell and the Gods allowed it. Alaric, the man with the slender hands who claimed to be a knight in look for service, had laughed outright at this. “Whatever that means. I guess the King has to favour the black brothers since they allowed him to desert his oaths.” Sam was offended. He was easily offended if someone was sceptical and spoke against the former Lord Commander, as if he knew him well. “King Jon is no deserter. Death released him from his oaths.” Alaric snorted. “Who is it then, who sits in Winterfell? Nobody comes back from the dead south of the wall and I’m not yet sure about all this wild stories about wights and White Walkers north of the Wall.” Gilly rolled her eyes. “We told you already, that the Others are real enough and that we saw them. This is no children’s tale.”

The warrior with the burnt face and the slight limp gave his thoughts as well. “I once saw a man resurrected. A priest of the God Rh’llor brought him back.” Alys of course had no idea what he was talking about nor had she any idea who the man really was who called himself Duncan. She made appropriate noises of disbelief. A tiny part of her remembered quite well how Thoros of Myr had laid his hand on Beric Dondarrion and how the Hound had been released. In her mind, she stamped resolutely on the memory. It was far better not to dwell on these thoughts lest she was reminded of her debt. The debt that had made her hide und bury deeply who she was.

“Rumour has it, we have dragons in the south with the last Targaryen. White walkers north of the wall. Rh’llor and other gods might be awakening or they decided to meddle in the affairs of humans again.” That was the young man who had given his name as Olyvar Rivers. He had told them he was looking for distant relations in Winterfell and hoped to find a place there. He sat by the fire and tried his hand at mending some clothes. He had a haunted look about him and the little boy of maybe five years, that rarely left his side and often clung to him, had not spoken a word yet. He reminded the innermost, tiny part of Alys of another boy, a boy far happier, who had run after her and her brothers and had shrieked with glee when they had played with him. _That boy has been dead three years, the Boltons killed him._

“So, what kind of God did resurrect King Jon, if he indeed came back from the dead?” Alaric apparently was not done with questioning Sam. “It must have been Rh’llor”, Gilly thought aloud. “The old Gods do not call people back, nor do the Seven. And although the Ironborn claim their Drowned God can bring people back, that is just a lie and a healer’s trick. Nothing to do with Gods. Maester Caro said so. The Gods of the cold bring people back, but King Jon would not be ruling Winterfell then.” She shuddered slightly. “He would be a walking corpse and I doubt he could hear petitions or welcome refugees if that was the case.” Sam beamed at her when she said that, but Duncan was sceptical. “How would you know all that?” he asked. Gilly shrugged. “There are all sorts of books at the citadel.” “You read?” Alys blurted out. Sam and Gilly glanced at her. Alys could feel her cheeks reddening. “I am sorry, I thought you were… “ _a wildling_ “…from the far north, from a farm or something.” Sam was exasperated and seemingly offended. “We spent three years at the citadel. Gilly has learned more than many of my fellow students in that time. She’s become a very good healer.”

“Don’t get your hackles raised up, Sam,” Alaric said. “I’m sure you both learned a lot of things in Oldtown. What kind of rumours made it to Oldtown?” Somehow that question did not calm Sam. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Well, rumours about the King in the North, about the Starks, of course. We might as well share some of them to pass the time.” Sam seemed flustered. “All kind of rumours, all of them lies, I’m sure. You said, you come from the south, I’m sure you heard more than me.” Alaric chuckled. “Definitely. I could tell you some of them.” Sam shook his head. “I’m not sure, I want that,” he said, but Duncan wanted to trade rumours as well and Alys got excited. She wanted to hear about King Jon and Lady Sansa.

She even started with one of the stories she herself had heard, at a time when she had worn her own face, how Sansa had poisoned Joffrey and how she had sprouted wings to flee King’s Landing afterwards. They all laughed, when Olyvar said, that a pair of wings must come in handy to escape the clutches of the Lannisters. Gilly told them, that King Jon had killed a White Walker when he had been Lord Commander and Alys thought that that probably was a true story, as well as Gilly’s tale about King Jon letting the Freefolk through the Wall, because he knew that they would be extinguished otherwise. As far as Alys knew here, Gilly would tell something to give them hope about their acceptance at Winterfell.

That made Duncan tell how kind Sansa had prayed even for her enemies during the battle of the Blackwater. Alys did not doubt that either. _What a very ladylike thing to do._ She did not dwell on the fact, that she knew that Sansa probably would do something like that. Alaric spun a very fancy tale about the greatest swordsman in the North, the bloody battle at Winterfell, he called the Battle of the Bastards and how the Boltons had been defeated and punished for their crimes against House Stark. He sure had a way with words and had them captured with his tale, although everybody knew the outcome. Gilly added how Lady Sansa had killed her tormentor. She sounded admiring when she went on how Sansa had deceived the great deceiver himself, Littlefinger the cunning, and how she had thrust a dagger into his treacherous heart after revealing his plans against the king. Alys had heard that story before, but Gilly told it nicely.

Olyvar told them, that King Jon had a direwolf, just like his brother the Young Wolf had. “He found them in the late Summer snows.”, he added. “All the Starks had wolves, great, dangerous beasts, that protected them, but they are gone now, all but the white one.” Alaric had some new information on that. “I heard that the Starks have new direwolves now. The old Gods have sent a new pack. There is a wolf for Lady Sansa again, two for the little twins and two more, for the missing Stark siblings.” That was apparently news for everybody else. When they asked him, how he knew about that, Alaric shrugged. “Queen Cersei in King’s Landing is quite keen on every story that casts doubt on the Starks. To hear her tell it, they are beasts themselves and run with their wolves to torture the smallfolk. If it weren’t for winter and the dragon queen she would long have sent troops to the North. But she is quite preoccupied with her war against the dragon queen. So, she just spreads rumour of how all Starks are wargs and how they practice blood magic and more…” Sam scoffed. “I heard this rumour in Oldtown as well, but that’s really ridiculous.”

But Alys interest was sparked: “What kind of blood magic and more?”, she asked. Sam seemed angry and put his mouth into a hard line, but Alaric was up to some juicy rumour. “All kind of things: They offer humans as sacrifices to the Old Gods and then the Old Gods do their bidding and slay some enemies.” Duncan laughed. “You can hardly believe that yourself! Why would we all go there, if the Starks sacrifice humans? Cersei would long be dead, if the Starks could just wish someone dead.”  “Well, I don’t know what to believe, but at least someone or something killed all those Freys.” Alaric said. Alys stared into the flames and tried not to listen to the faint voice in her head, she so desperately wanted to ignore.

Olyvar looked up startled. “Do you think that the Freys were killed by blood magic? That the Starks did it?” His voice sounded tense. Alys who knew exactly, how the Freys had died, kept silent, but Gilly interrupted. “You really know nothing about the Old Gods. The Old Gods might have punished the Freys, but not because of some silly magic. Walder Frey slew the Young Wolf, all his retinue and Lady Catelyn while they were guests in his house. He is dead and his line is dead because of that.” “I heard that the Brotherhood without Banners took the Freys out.”, Alys stated. Duncan shook his head. “No, there was an enormous pack of wolves led by a giant she-wolf. They attacked the twins and killed everybody.”

Olyvar shifted. The little boy that was with him had fallen asleep on his lap some time ago and Olyvar seemed to be uncomfortable. “How would you know that,” he asked.  It was Alaric who answered. “Where have you been, that you have not heard about that? The smallfolk even have a name for it,” Alaric said. “The wolves’ revenge. Did the Old Gods send those wolves? Did the Starks conjure them?” he turned towards Gilly. “There is no conjuring with the Old Gods.” Alaric smiled at that. “Perhaps there is no human sacrifice involved, but there are other ways to do magic.” Sam was agitated again. “These are all vile rumours, one as false as the other.” Alys was curious. “What kind of rumours?” she asked Alaric. Sam obviously did not want to satisfy her curiosity, but Alaric did. “In the South, rumours are floating about the Stark siblings. The King in the North has not wed and he has good reason not to do so. And Lady Sansa killed all her husbands and had good reasons as well.” Alys rolled her eyes. “Just spit it out. You really drag with your stories.” Alaric winked. “In the South, they say, that they fuck. And every time the Starks fuck, a Frey dies.” Alys heart made a lurch and she could hear the echoes of a voice in her head. “You mean, King Jon and Lady Sansa?”, Duncan asked incredulously. _That can’t be true. That mustn’t be true._ Sam became red in the face and Gilly placed a hand on his arm. “Why would you even go to Winterfell, if you think that’s true?” Sam almost shouted. “I didn’t say I believe it. I was just sharing some gossip. And in the south, there are even more tales, if you believe some of the Lannister men.” Alaric gave one of his easy smiles. “I blame those Lannisters,” Olyvar said. He had given up on his mending and took a stick and poked it randomly into the flames. “Nowadays a brother can’t even be close to his sister. Somebody is bound to shout ‘Lannister!’ or ‘Incest’. That is really annoying.” Alys had to laugh at that, despite herself and the others laughed as well and the tension subsided.

With Sam so agitated, Alaric did not share any more tales, and Alys was glad for that. She knew that she must hold on to Alys. It was the only way. Thinking about Arya and what Arya would feel about her siblings imitating the Lannisters was no good. Arya was dead, Arya must stay dead. If Arya came back, it would be a disaster. Alys resolutely stamped on all memories in her mind, on the dread that a part of her felt when she had heard the gossip. _I am Alys Karstark. My father promised my hand to anyone who would give him Jaime Lannister’s head. My whole family is gone and I go to Winterfell to claim my inheritance, even if the Karstarks were traitors. I am looking for mercy._ She repeated the story in her head and could feel how the face of Alys settled and Alys did not dwell on silly rumours from the South although she felt a certain curiosity if either King Jon or Lady Sansa would live up to the stories that she had heard. When she had laid down, she heard a very soft, yet clear voice echo in her head. _“You had your revenge and House Frey is no more. You owe a debt to the Many-faced God. For balance a Stark must die. Choose well.”_ Alys ignored the voice and only a small part of her was very afraid. _I am looking for mercy._


	3. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Alys Snow' and her party arrive at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write on "To go south" and this fic at the same time. So I'll update alternating. I want to say thank you to everybody who reads and appreciates. There are some who do comments on every chapter. That is so nice. I accumulate some kudos for every new chapter and this really motivates me. So, feel free to ask, comment etc. This is a fic I'm really invested in, so I'm glad, if you like it!

They arrived at Winterfell while the sun was still up. The sun gave an illusion of warmth and joy, although snow and ice did not melt. Higher in the air there was just a slight breeze that made the banners of Winterfell visible now and then. Alys had heard about the personal banner of the king, a white wolf with red eyes on a black field and yet it somehow felt strange to see the black-and-white banners alternating with the ice-white and grey banners of House Stark. Surely that would mean that the king was in Winterfell and not on one of his war-excursions either beyond the wall or against the Ironborn who continued to pester the Northern shores. Alys felt oddly elated that she would see King Jon, considering that she had only seen him once. Their small party was halted when there were still some leagues to go to the castle. Warriors on ponies with thick fur that had Stark signs on their rugs surrounded them. The ponies had strange horseshoes that made their hooves about twice as wide as they should be, but they didn’t sink much into the snow. They were led by a small girl that could not possibly be older than thirteen of fourteen. She wore a frown on her face and asked them about their business. Behind her was a man who carried a small banner with a bear. _She must be a Mormont,_ Alys thought, scratching at her knowledge of the Northern houses.

It was Sam who went forward, his hands raised, palms facing outward. “We are refugees and petitioners and came to see the King. I am Samwell Tarly, a brother of the night’s watch. I forged a maester’s chain in Oldtown by order of the Lord Commander and I plan to go to the wall. Me and Gilly,” he pointed to his wife, “want to petition the King for his permission to marry. The others are war refugees who heard the Starks could take them in.” Inwardly, Alys shook her head. Sam actually believed the made-up stories of his traveling companions. The young Mormont looked at their small party. “You, Maester Samwell, are misinformed about the petitions for marriage. This kind of petitions are heard by Lady Sansa and it is your woman who should appeal. But you are quite lucky. As it happens, the King and the Lady Sansa will hear petitions tomorrow. All your cases will be heard on the morrow. We will take you to Winterfell where you will be the Stark’s guests for one night.” She waved to her knights and some of them dismounted, one for every one of their party. They stood alert but not particularly troubled. _As if one knight would be enough for me or the Hound if it would come to fighting._ Alys shook her head, because she didn’t know anything about the Hound. Just for a tiny moment she had lost all feeling in her face.

The Mormont knights were polite enough and some of them offered to share their mounts with the children and the women. The mute child with the auburn locks shook his head, although he was unsteady on his feet. Olyvar took him on his shoulders and the knight who offered to carry him took their little bundle instead. Little Melassa gurgled happily when she was handed to Gilly in a saddle and little Sam rode with another knight, apparently very keen on having a chance to look around from above. Alys gave in to her tiredness and accepted a pony as well. “While we ride to Winterfell, you will state your name and business,” the lady in charge said. “I am Lyanna Mormont and it is my task to prepare for the petitions tomorrow.”

She pointed at Alaric who had studied her with fascination. Alaric and Duncan gave their names and stuck to their stories that they were looking for a place as knights and Alys did not change her story of a poor bastard looking for a home either. Olyvar elaborated a little on the story he had told them. “My nephew here has relatives from his father’s side at Winterfell, or so I heard from my sister’s husband. I hope they will take him in.” Lyanna Mormont gave curt nods to their stories. She turned to Sam. “Samwell Tarly. Have you heard about your father?”, she asked. Sam bowed his head and nodded. “My condolences,” Lady Lyanna said. “Randyll Tarly was your father?” Alaric asked. Sam seemed to be ill at ease. “Yes, but he disowned me. He sent me to the Night’s watch and yet he was offended when I obeyed the Lord commander’s order to become a maester. He never wanted any son of his to debase himself like that. He had long ceased being my family before his death. My family is Gilly and the children, and my friends at the Night’s watch.” He exchanged a short look with Gilly that held many emotions Alys could not pin down, mostly affection but a flicker of something else as well, guilt perhaps. “Still, his death was horrible. Being burnt on the field between the breath of dragons and wildfire….” Alaric pointed out, shuddering involuntarily.

The reminder of the queens in the south fighting in a world of fiery dragons and dangerous wildfire subdued their mood and they were silent for the rest of the ride to Winterfell. Lady Lyanna brought them to a hall just at the walls of Winterfell, but still quite far from the main building where the great hall was. There were other petitioners as well and Alys was astonished how many people had found the way to Winterfell. When they entered, Lady Lyanna spoke to the woman who was distributing soup and one of her knights knocked his spear on the floor. Silence fell and Lady Lyanna instructed them about the next morning in a clipped voice. “Tomorrow morning, each of you will be admitted in the presence of the King and the Lady Hand to plead for your cases. The King in the North offers guest right until your petition is heard. Each of you will be searched for weapons before you are admitted in the presence of the King and his Hand. Be warned. If any weapon is found on you, you will not see the King and will be removed. The Stark’s direwolves will be there as well and if they don’t like you, you will not see the King and will be removed. You may be brought before the old Gods if the King and Lady Sansa are in doubt about your case, and if the Gods judge you to be dangerous you will be removed as well. But do not fear: If you are true, you will have the opportunity to plead your case and the King and the Lady Hand will listen to you. In the North, we uphold the old guest right and you are beneath the roofs of Winterfell now and will not be harmed.” Alys could not help herself. She was worried. She would have to leave behind her weapons. This Lady Lyanna did not look like someone who would skip over searching her just because she was a woman. And what if the direwolves decided they did not like her or her face. _What shall I do then? Shall I shed my face and reveal myself?_ Alys shuddered. That might have very dire consequences. Alys did not really know, if Arya Stark would count as dead, if her face was never seen again, but that seemed to be the only option.

Alys pulled herself out of her musings and sat down to eat. The soup was hot and delicious and she hungrily ate two bowls. Sam and Gilly were sitting together and Alys avoided looking at their happy faces. Olyvar’s nephew who still didn’t say a word sat on his uncle’s lap and tugged in as well. Olyvar gave him bread, but did not touch anything himself. Alys found that odd. They had shared their food as was only right for travelling companions, but it had not been much. Alaric enveloped his bowl with his slender hands and sighed contentedly and Duncan was asking for chicken.

If it had not been so silent with everybody relishing the hot soup, they probably would not have heard the laughter from outside. It was happy, carefree children’s laughter, and Alys found herself drawn to the sound. She stood up and went to one of the windows. The shutters were closed and the curtains were drawn because of the cold, but she could peek through. Two little boys were running to and fro, giggling and laughing. A man was in hot pursuit, almost catching up with them several times, but always only brushing their arms, or their hair, grasping only thin air instead of the boys. When he was close to the boys, he snapped his teeth at them. Alys’ heart gave a lurch when she saw him. “Wait, till I’ll get you”, he growled. “You’ll never get us,” one of the boys bragged. “I just have to think of an evil plan,” the man said. He made a show of halting and fighting for air and the boys stopped their running. They tentatively came closer and closer. One of them reached out with his hand. “Uncle Jon?” he asked. Jon suddenly leaped and the boys turned abruptly, giggling, running in different directions just far enough to be out of his reach. Jon feigned pursuit shortly in the direction of one of the boys, but suddenly changed his momentum and ran wildly after the other who had made the mistake to stop and watch. He caught him and swung him in the air and over his shoulder. The boy was laughing wildly. “Got you,” Jon growled. “What shall I do with you, you rascal. Did no one ever tell you that you do not throw snowballs at the king. I’ll have you punished.” The boy squealed with glee just like children do when they know that a threat is idle. The other boy came running. “Me, too”, he shouted and up he went as well. Jon spun in a circle until they all fell to the earth. _Jon spun Arya like that when they were children,_ Alys thought.

A woman with red hair shining in the evening sun came around the corner, pulling a sled. Alys’ breath caught. The woman looked so much like the woman of her earliest memories of safety and warmth, that she felt tears burning in her eyes. But they did not fall. Alys would not know the woman who had sang to Arya when she was little. The boys struggled to their feet and ran to her. “Mom, Mom,” they called. “Uncle Jon says, we’re going to be punished for throwing snowballs.” The boys’ mother bent down and patted the boys’ clothes and brushed off the snow. “Well, we better beg for mercy, then,” she mused. She went to the place where Jon lay, and extended her hand. They were just in the right angle for Alys to see that they smiled warmly at each other. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a few heartbeats and then Jon took her hand and stood up. “How could you beg for mercy for such an offence,” he asked. “I am soaked.” The woman clapped her hands. “Boys,” she instructed. “Mind your courtesies.” The boys made very solemn faces and gave a bow, but began giggling again before they had even finished their bows.

“That’s Jon”, Alys heard somebody say. It was Sam who had left his place and stood beside her looking through another gap in the curtain. “and that must be Lady Sansa and her boys.” Alys rolled her eyes. “That was not difficult to guess,” she said, but Sam had already turned and went to the door a happy grin on his face. He was blocked by one of the Mormont men. “Where do you think, you are going?”, the knight asked. “That’s Jon,” Sam repeated his observation. “I want to greet him.” The Mormont man frowned. “Who do you think, you are?” Sam flushed a deep shade of red. “I am sorry, but I do know him, from before he was king.” The Mormont raised his eyebrows at that and was not to be persuaded to let Sam through. He made that clear by planting his spear between Sam and the door. He deigned to explain in a slightly condescending tone. “Listen, the King will hear your petition tomorrow. Once a fortnight the King spends an afternoon with his sister and his nephews and there are strict orders that they are not to be disturbed.” He raised his hands. “Not under any circumstances.” He began ticking his fingers. “Save the return of Arya Stark. Save the Return of Brandon Stark. Save the invasion of the White Walkers.” He gave Sam a push that was not too gentle. “Are you Arya Stark? Are you Brandon Stark? Are you a White Walker?” Sam was nonplussed and shook his head. “Ah,” the man said. “I did not think so either. Just be patient.” Alys felt oddly disconnected with her face again. _They are looking for Arya, they want her back._

Alys forced herself to think about something else and allowed herself to feel for Sam and his embarrassment. She gave him an encouraging smile, when Sam trod back to the window, cheeks still burning. _Is it possible that he really knows Jon?_ She patted his arm, but her longing heart pulled her to the window again. A huge white direwolf had joined the group. _Ghost._ There were others as well, a direwolf of almost the same size whose brown fur had just a hint of red and two grey ones. _Alaric had it right. There is a pack of wolves._ “Call your wolves,” Sansa told the boys, and they began shouting. “Socks, Socks,” and “Gloves, Gloves”. _Silly names, almost as bad as ‘shaggydog’ was._ Yet, when the wolves came Alys had to smile, because the names fit so well. They were a dark shade of grey, almost black, one with white hind legs, the other with white forelegs. Alys vision blurred when Jon took up the cord of the sled and they all continued their walk, the boys’ high and excited voices getting faint and incomprehensible with the distance. Her heart felt ready to burst with conflicting emotions. _They miss Arya so much that they have a wolf in case she comes back. They gave orders to look out for her. But she will not come._ But her last thought was oddly resentful. _How dare they? How dare they be so happy? Don’t they have any idea what I suffered for the sake of vengeance for our family?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Children really love playing being chased by a monster. I loved this as a child. And it means they are happy and a little bit afraid at the same time. There is a German word for it (Wonnegraus) but I could not find an English expression. If anybody has an idea, please tell me. I would love to add that to my English vocabulary.


	4. A conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilly is brought to Sansa to petition for a marriage to Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I only wanted to write a paragraph. The story got out of hand....  
> Please excuse my English. It's not my first language and there are bound to be mistakes. Hopefully they will not hinder you to enjoy the story.

When Sansa went back into the castle, she tried to savour the feeling of happiness. She and Jon had stood on the battlements and Sansa still felt the lingering warmth of Jon’s hands and his fingers. How was it even possible that Jon touching her hair felt so intimate. Logically she had no feelings in her hair, but when Jon had undone her braid, she still felt so close to him as if he was kissing her. She wondered briefly if other women who had loving husbands would even understand how looks or brief touches or moments like the one she and Jon had just shared led her heart to beat erratically. Would a man and a woman whose love was fulfilled even feel so elated at slight touches? Somehow Sansa doubted that, but there was no way she could find out. She had decided long ago, that it was best, if neither she nor Jon ever spoke about their feelings explicitly. And to tell somebody else was out of the question.

She was sure, that it was not necessary to speak out about their love anyway. As most times, she was sure about what Jon had left unspoken. Jon had dreamt about her, a carefree dream of making love and of spring, she was sure, and she felt cherished and loved and ridiculously happy. For once the familiar ache of longing for more than just the occasional touch was not overwhelming. Sansa knew that she would pay for that moment of closeness. Lately, Jon had danced closer to the invisible line that separated them and usually that meant that he would try to put some distance between them soon. He would ride out to patrol the Wall or to check for Ironborn invaders and he would leave her in Winterfell, only to return after several weeks in a rush. Sansa knew that the moment would come when she would not let him leave or he would boldly cross the line and they both would be entangled even deeper in a love that surely must be doomed. _Family, Duty, Honour_. _Be steadfast. I wish the Gods would give me some counsel as to how to do that._

For now, Sansa would cherish the day. She liked listening to petitions. She would be with Jon for the whole of the day, a rare enough occurrence with everything they had to do, and to sit beside him, knees occasionally touching, looking out for their people’s interest together, conversing over hasty meals. All these together almost gave Sansa the illusion that she was Jon’s wife and his queen. She should know better than to daydream like that, but caring for Winterfell and the North at Jon’s side was the time Sansa felt with utter certainty, that she belonged at Jon’s side heart and soul, and on petitions’ day her feeling accorded with reality. Daydreaming it might be, but, Sansa thought, nobody could begrudge her the small happiness that came on days like these.

She was softly humming to herself redoing her braid when someone knocked at her door. It was Lady Lyanna, she had a woman in tow. When Sansa bid them enter, Brienne who had watch duty ushered them in and Lyanna introduced the girl as Gilly. The name Gilly somehow rang a bell in Sansa’s memory, but she couldn’t place where she had heard the name. Lyanna explained that Gilly wanted to wed a black brother and that explained why she had taken Gilly to see Sansa before the petitions would begin. Sansa offered a seat to the women. She sat across them and gave Gilly an encouraging smile. Gilly kneaded her fingers, but afterwards put them loosely in her lap, an act that betrayed her nervousness, although you would not have known that from her carefully schooled face. _That’s not the first time that girl is in the presence of a noble lady. She seems to be brave._ “My man and me, want to petition for a marriage and Lady Lyanna told me that I would have to explain myself to you”, Gilly said. Sansa nodded. “Why don’t you want me to plead with the other petitioners?”, Gilly asked. “The King made a proclamation that the Black brothers can marry, there is no need for secrecy, or is there?” Sansa shook her head. “No, there isn’t. But I have my own experiences with marriage and I want to ensure that the women who wed Black Brothers are doing so of their own free will. The Crown gives every approved couple a small sum to start their own household and although that is not common knowledge, I would not want men greedy for the money to force women into marriage.”, Sansa explained. “That is the reason why you are here, without your man and on your own.”

Gilly’s face lit up. “That is marvellous, Lady Sansa, I had no idea.” Sansa was surprised how much prettier Gilly looked now and realised that her look before had been very guarded. _She must have had some bad experiences._ That was true enough. Gilly immediately began to tell her story and Sansa thought that it sounded like quite an adventure. Apparently, Gilly’s husband-to-be was a nice enough man. Gilly told how he had taken her all the way from the North, that she was a wildling, that he had cared for her despite his family having fits over a wildling girl and that he had taken her to Oldtown while he forged his chain. “Now, that we can marry, Sam wants to marry. I don’t mind, really. I know he would never leave me anyway.” Only when Sansa heard the name Sam, the vague memory that had been sitting in the back of her head came back to her. “Wait,” she said, “Sam as in Samwell Tarly? Jon’s friend? You’re Craster’s daughter?” Sansa was thunderstruck. “Why didn’t you say so immediately?” Gilly was flustered. “Sam told one of the guards yesterday, that he knows the King, but he wouldn’t believe him.” Sansa shot a frowning look at Lady Lyanna who gave a shrug, as unfazed as ever. “If we would admit everybody who claims he knows the king, His grace would never have a peaceful moment.” Sansa had to admit that probably was true, but she immediately began to plan for a surprise for Jon. She sprang up: “Gilly, fetch your Sam. You must break your fast with us before the petitions. We will surprise Jon. He will be so happy!” When Gilly did not react immediately, she took her hand and pulled her out of the chair. Fortunately, it took not long for Gilly to consent to the conspiracy and she left to fetch Sam and her children. Sansa bid Lyanna to inform everyone that Sam and Gilly would have the freedom of the castle.

Sansa was practically giddy with joy that she would have such a wonderful opportunity to surprise Jon. She called for her direwolf Alysanne, took up a scarf, and went to Jon’s room, Brienne behind her. Sansa informed Brienne in a hushed whisper about her plan. Jon opened at her knocking and his eyes widened at seeing her. For a tiny moment, Sansa thought she heard him catching his breath. They both were very careful not to visit each other’s chamber, unless there was a good reason. Unbidden Sansa pictured Jon pulling her into his room, embracing and kissing her, as if she had come stealthily by night. When Jon saw Brienne, his face returned to normal and the fleeting image Sansa was sure had come into Jon’s mind as well passed. She would not linger on her thoughts right now. “Jon, I have a surprise”, she said, easily bringing back her earlier elation. He smiled. “You realise Sansa, that having lemon cakes for breakfast is a pleasant surprise for you, not for me.” Sansa clapped him on his arm. “No lemon cakes. We have no money for lemons, remember? No, it is a pleasant surprise for you, just trust me.” She opened the door and called for Ghost. “I’ll have to blindfold you.” Sansa took the scarf and Jon obliged her, only protesting pro forma that a blindfold would harm his dignity and give him bruises. Of course, it would not be necessary to blindfold him for the entire way to the great hall, but Sansa was glad for the excuse to take him by the hand. “Just trust me,” she said. “You won’t get bruises and Brienne will look out that nobody sees us.” Sansa could feel that Jon’s protests were feeble indeed. Ghost was excited and the direwolf usually mirrored Jon’s mood. Sansa took Jon’s hand and arm and guided him slowly along the corridors, Ghost and Alysanne bouncing and yapping before them, caught by Sansa’s excitement.

When they reached the Great Hall, Sansa left Jon for a moment in the corridor to peak around the corner to see if Sam and Gilly were already there. Ghost came with her, tail wagging. He took a sniff in the air and ran towards a portly man who stood at Gilly’s side, tongue lolling. The huge direwolf sprang at the man and began to fervently lick his face. The man had difficulty to regain his balance and Sansa had to laugh. Jon tore the blindfold from his eyes and shouted “Sam”, even before he had rounded the corner. He ran after Ghost to his friend and embraced him, threatening again to topple Sam over. Ghost pressed himself to Sam’s side. Alysanne came closer much more cautiously, but she quickly joined Ghost in wanting to be petted. She usually followed Ghost’s lead when it came to liking people. Sansa and Gilly smiled at each other that their conspiracy had worked so well and Sansa gave a signal for breakfast to be served.


	5. Petitions - 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa her petitions and there are several surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter became so long, that I cut it in two. Lots of surprises for Jon and Sansa and some things come out.

Breakfast went by in a blur. Jon talked so much and laughed so much, that Ser Davos leaned over to Sansa and asked her if the King had been bewitched. Sansa was talking with Gilly most of the time and made plans how they could stay in Winterfell. Sansa was delighted to hear that Gilly had not been idle while she and Sam had been staying at the Citadel and that she had learned about healing. She thought that Gilly would be a welcome help in the castle. And it would be so nice for Jon to have Sam close. He doesn’t have enough friends, really.  
Too soon it was time for the petitions. Lady Lyanna had told them that she estimated it would take until well into the afternoon and reluctantly Sansa tugged Jon’s sleeve. “I hate to rush, Jon,” she said, “but we should start now, if we want to be ready in time for going into the Godswood.” They would have to be there by sunset. The Chance to hear the Gods and be sure they listened was always best at sunset. Jon nodded and the smiles vanished from his face, but Sansa could see in his eyes, that his mood was still very good. He pressed her hand. “That was such a wonderful surprise, thank you, Sansa,” he said. Breakfast was cleared away, Maester Wolkan invited Sam to a talk and Sansa suggested to Gilly that she could bring her children to Eddard and Rickon to play together. “There are not enough children in the castle. My sons will be glad to have little Sam and Melassa.” Gilly nodded. “If you allow, we will explore the castle.” Sansa laughed. “That will take days. Just be back, before the sun sets. We’ll all go to the Godswood then.”  
Lyanna Mormont had not exaggerated. There was a steady string of petitioners, most of the cases quite uneventful and boring. No weapons were found, nor did Ghost or Alysanne ever became alarmed. They would have a place for most of the people and they were not yet as hard pressed that they had to turn anyone down. If the news of the Dragons- and-Wildfire-war would turn any more alarming, Winterfell probably would be overflowing with refugees from the South. When Jon leaned over to her to complain about the tedium, she whispered back: “Be careful what you wish for! I still have nightmares about the one time that assassin from Cersei actually came within an arm’s length of you.”   
At noon, they had a short meal. Eddard and Rickon joined them for the time and both boys chatted happily away. Jon was listening attentively as he always did as they described how they had shown everything to their guests. Sansa suspected that a lengthy visit to the kitchen had been part of the tour, because the twins did not eat that much. It was only after the midday meal that the petitions became very unusual. Lyanna Mormont presented a young man looking for place as a knight with unusual slender hands and mischievous look to him whose name was Alaric Waters.   
Alaric gave a deep bow. “Your grace, lady Hand”, he said. “I beg your forgiveness that I was not entirely truthful when I stated my business to Lady Mormont.” He took a deep breath. “I am not really a soldier. I am a singer and I beg you to accept me. I was continuously tortured in King’s Landing and I seek refuge here in Winterfell.” Sansa frowned. “A Singer? We are at war with the White Walkers and the Ironborn and we neither have time for ample feasts nor entertainments. Why come to us?” Alaric gave another bow. “My lady, Winterfell is the only place I can think off, where I won’t have to sing the ‘Rains of Castamere’ ever again,” he answered. “Queen Cersei hardly ever wants another song and after a prolonged torture of singing this song at least once a day, I decided, if I had to sing it one more time I would go mad.” Sansa had to laugh despite herself. She was not the only one. Several others chuckled as well. “Would you sing songs for the rough North, then?” the King wanted to know. Alaric nodded. “Indeed, your grace, I have prepared a song on the battle of Winterfell and if it pleases you, I can sing it for you.” Jon’s face was unreadable. “The battle of the Bastards, you mean.” He said. Alaric flushed. “That’s how the smallfolk call it,” he said. Jon gave and enigmatic smile. “We call it that as well.” He turned to Sansa, his eyes questioning. “Do you have over skills than singing?”, Sansa asked. “Alas, the Gods have given me only this one talent.” Alaric conceded. Sansa was not sure, how to react. The part of her that remembered the happy little dreamy girl of her childhood was just thrilled to have a singer here at Winterfell, but the sensible part of the lady of Winterfell told her otherwise. A singer, a useless mouth to feed is a better description. She bit her lip. Lifting the mood could be good for moral, the tiny part whispered. Sansa looked at Jon. Somehow, he guessed her conflict and gave her a very small smile, more of a little upward tug of the corners of his mouth really. “We’ll ask the Gods about you and we will listen to your song this evening.”, he decided. Alaric gave yet another bow. “I am sure, you’ll like my song.” Lyanna Mormont gave a signal to her men and scowled at Alaric. The Mormont men escorted Alaric to the side where he would have to wait until they went to the Godswood.  
The next petitioner was a young woman introduced as Alys Snow by Lady Lyanna. She wore breeches and had a hard look about her, that made Sansa wonder what she had seen. Alys was fidgeting and did something that could only be described as a jumble instead of a curtsey or a bow. Sansa was strongly reminded of her sister Arya and a wave of sadness hit her. “I am also guilty of not telling the whole truth. I am not Alys Snow, I am Alys Karstark,” the woman said and Sansa could hear a rush or murmurs throughout the hall. No Karstark traitor had dared to set a foot into Winterfell after she and Jon had driven off the Boltons and Karhold had been abandoned for some time, before Jon and Sansa had given the stronghold to a trusted man of Lyanna Mormont. Sansa became alarmed when Ghost who had been quiet throughout the petitions got up and trotted over to Alys. The direwolf seemed to be distressed or maybe puzzled, Sansa had never seen him like that. Alysanne joined him and the direwolves circled Alys several times. Sansa looked to Jon who was as alarmed as she was. “What is that?”, Sansa whispered. Jon shrugged. “I have no idea, really, Alys reminds Ghost of someone, I would say.” Jon must be startled. He almost never admits how well he can feel Ghost. Just, when Sansa decided that she would call the direwolves, they withdrew and came back to settle at Jon’s and her feet.   
Sansa was surprised that Alys did not look afraid at all. She had known more experienced men who would not have suffered such a scrutiny of the huge beasts without showing fear. “State your business, Lady Karstark,” Jon said. “I would beg for mercy,” Alys said. “I know that my family has betrayed yours, but I had no part in that. My father had sent for me when he promised my hand to anybody who would bring him the Kingslayer’s head. I ended up in captivity at the Twins. Walder Frey wanted a ransom from my family, but they never paid and after the Old Gods punished the Freys I escaped. I am the only Karstark left alive. I would offer you my service.” That was a wild story and Sansa was not sure, if she believed it. She changed a look with Jon who signalled to her that she should take over. “What kind of service do you have in mind?”, she asked. “You must know that your family’s hold was enfeoffed to a trusted retainer. If your story holds true we won’t send you away, but Karhold is lost to you, after the Karstarks betrayed the Young Wolf in the Riverlands and King Jon at the Battle of Winterfell.” Alys remained calm. “I know that, but I can fight. Let me prove my loyalty to House Stark.” “By fighting?” Sansa asked. “Women can fight as well as men,” Alys answered showing her annoyance and looking sullen. Oh, one of those girls that don’t know that fighting is much more than swinging a sword. Sansa sighed. “My sworn shield is Brienne of Tarth. You might have heard of her. Nobody who’s seen her fight would ever doubt that a woman can fight. But you must prove your skills. You will be brought into the Godswood as well and tomorrow you’ll fight with Brienne and Lady Lyanna Mormont will judge your worth. I suggest you apologize to the Lady of Bear Island for deliberately lying to her.” Alys scowled. She looks as if she had expected a heartier welcome.  
“Explain what happened at the Twins and how you escaped. We only heard rumours here in the North”, Jon demanded. Alys looked at Jon as if she was a deer in a trap, her confidence suddenly gone completely. Sansa could see her eyes watering as if she was about to cry and felt a sudden pang of pity. She laid her hand on Jon’s arms. “I’m sure, it must have been ghastly and there is no need for Alys to talk about that here. That story can wait.” She leaned over to Jon and whispered in his ear. “The truth will come out at the weirwood tree. Have pity on the girl, she is half as hard as she wants to be.” Jon motioned to Lyanna and Alys was brought to stand next to Alaric to await the judgement of the Gods. Jon whispered back to Sansa. He voiced his concern, that Alys Karstark was not telling the truth or at least only parts of it and they discussed in hushed and low voices how Alys’ story could possibly fit into what they had heard from the bloodbath at the Twins.


	6. Petitions - 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa have a really long day, listening to all these petitions....

If Sansa and Jon had not been intent on their conversation, they would have recognized the next petitioner even before Lady Lyanna gave yet another false name. “Duncan from the Riverlands, looking for service in the wars of the North.”, Lyanna said. Sansa looked up and was for a moment too shocked to speak. _The Hound!_ She was up on her feet. “You! You are alive!”, she blurted out. Sandor Clegane bowed his head. “Lady Sansa”, he said and “Your Grace” towards Jon.

“You have been misinformed again, Lady Lyanna”, Sansa said. “This is Sandor Clegane, also known as the Hound. He was sworn shield to Joffrey Baraetheon before the Battle of the Blackwater. He was seen in the Riverlands by Brienne of Tarth. Arya Stark was in his company. Brienne defeated him and left him for dead, but she did not find Arya.” Jon scrutinized the man with a hard look. “Have you come to tell us what happened to our sister?”, he asked. “How did you survive?” The Hound began to tell his story in his rasping voice and Sansa sat back on her chair. His voice reminded Sansa of her time in King’s Landing and she felt transported back to the awful time when she had been without friends in the capital. _Sandor was the only one who was friendly._ Briefly, she wondered if she would have been luckier if she had left with the Hound. _I probably would not have been married to Ramsay, but I doubt I would have met Jon again._ The Hound’s story sounded even more wild than Alys’s story had. Apparently, he had been on the edge of death, when a septon found and healed him. Afterwards outlaws had killed the septon and Sandor had joined with the brotherhood without banners to revenge him. The brotherhood had been after the Freys, but the continuous fighting in the Riverlands had finally been the end of the brotherhood.

Jon interrupted the Hound: “Can you tell us what happened at the Twins? We have only heard wild rumours here in the North.” The Hound shook his head. “Something terrible. But I couldn’t tell you what exactly happened. When I passed the Twins, the castle was a field of corpses, Freys, smallfolk, women, children, and wolves.“ “Wolves?”, Sansa asked astonished. “Yes, hundreds of wolves. Since I joined the brotherhood there had been rumours about a huge pack of wolves led by a giant she-wolf. The smallfolk thought they were sent either by the Old Gods or by the Starks. The wolves’ revenge, the smallfolk call it. The fighting must have been terrible.” Sansa shuddered and changed a look with Jon who looked as troubled as she herself felt. Jon answered the unvoiced question that must have been foremost in everybody’s mind. “I can tell you, that we did not send any wolves and I doubt the Old Gods did either. If they did, they never told us. I cannot say that I’m sorry for the Freys, but it seems that many innocents died as well.” Sandor nodded. “It looked much like the Red Wedding. But if the Old Gods did not punish the Freys, what happened there? Do the Old Gods really talk to you?” Sansa saw his disbelief. “Sometimes they do, at the weirwood tree, but they are Gods. I doubt they tell Lady Sansa or me everything, just enough to help us against the Long Night. You might see for yourself.” Sandor still looked very disbelieving, but he held his tongue. Sansa could understand. When they had retaken Winterfell and she had heard the voice in the weirwood for the first time, warning her of Littlefinger’s machinations, she had doubted her own sanity. “What about Arya, can you tell us anything about Arya.” Sandor hung his head. “No, your sister vanished and when I was healed I found no trace of her.”

Sansa and Jon looked at each other, their little flicker of hope rudely extinguished. Still, they wanted to know how the Hound had come to be in Arya’s company and he obliged them. Sansa thought it very believable that he had been after ransom, but she interrupted the Hound when he told them about his attempt to bring Arya to her mother and brother, standing on her feet again. “Arya was there? She was at the Red Wedding?” Hearing her own voice Sansa could hear that it was thick and raw with emotion. She felt tears springing to her eyes. _Arya has seen this carnage, she was forced to see it._ Jon must have stood up as well, because he was at her side. He took her hand and they pressed their hands together sharing their grief and trying to get their emotions under control, both their eyes still intent on the Hound. The Hound nodded. “Yes, I had to beat her unconscious to get her away. She was wild with rage and would have died there, sword in hand.” Sansa did not trust her voice and she heard Jon trying to clear his throat several times before he answered. “We deeply regret that Arya did not trust Brienne enough to accompany her and that you were not able to find her. But we owe you for saving her life at the Twins. We might still hope that Arya finds her way back. What do you want? Why did you come to Winterfell?” “I am really looking for a place where fighting means something, but I was not sure about my reception and therefore I gave another name. I am sorry for that,” the Hound concluded. _He must have changed quite a lot. He wants to fight for a cause? And the old Hound would never have said, that he was sorry for anything._ Jon studied the Hound intently. He shortly looked at Sansa and when she nodded, he stood up: “If you want a place in our army, you are welcome. We can use every fighter.”

Somehow that decision seemed to irritate Lady Alys Karstark. “Why do I have to prove my loyalty and this former Lannister man is just accepted?”, she called. Sansa did her best to give Lady Alys a look that would express her displeasure. “We are not in the habit to explain our decisions, Lady Alys. I would just remind you that I know Sandor Clegane to be a good fighter. But I can see how some who do not know him, might doubt the truth of his story and the truth of his rescue of Lady Arya. Therefore, he will be brought to the weirwood tree as well.” She sat again and Jon waved for Lady Lyanna and her men who brought Sandor to Alaric and Alys. Sansa felt drained from the day. Her feelings of bliss and love of this morning had plummeted to the depth of grief and sadness, the haunted memory of the Red Wedding refreshed by the tales of Alys and Sandor. She longed for the carefree laughter of her children, their chubby cheeks touching hers and spreading warmth to her heart, and at the same time she wished she was alone with Jon and could just lay her head on his shoulder and let her tears fall. Jon sat down again and leaned towards her ear. “Only one to go”, he said under his breath. _How does he always know the right thing to say?_

By now, the audience in the hall was restive. It had been a long day for the listeners as well. Lyanna Mormont brought forward a certain Olyvar Rivers who had a boy by his side of maybe five or six years. The boy looked so eerily like Rickon on the day Sansa had left Winterfell to go south that Sansa felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. _How is this even possible, who is that?_ Sansa felt her hands going clammy and a feeling of dread settled on her that only intensified when the young man fell to his knees and stayed that way despite Jon telling him to rise. The direwolves felt the agitation of their masters and stood up, alert, but still stayed put. The little boy obviously was very much afraid and clutched the man’s arm. Sansa calmed her breath. “I told you to rise.”, Jon said, his voice sounded unfamiliar. Sansa was sure that the boy’s likeness to Rickon must have rattled Jon as well. “I dare not,” Olyvar said. “I beg for mercy knowing that I do not deserve it.” He pushed the boy gently from his side and let him stand in front of him. “This is Hoster Tully, the son of Edmure Tully, and your cousin, Lady Sansa.”, he said. “Lord Edmure pledged me to bring his son to safety.” “I can easily believe he is a Tully.” Jon said. “He looks enough like my little brother Rickon to have Tully blood. But who are you?”, he asked. Sansa felt like she was choking and blood was rushing in her ears. “He is a Frey, he must be!”, she exclaimed, the strange pose of Olyvar suddenly making sense. Everybody in the hall fell silent and Sansa could hear her own laboured breath. Alysanne and Ghost snarled. Sansa fought to regain her calmness and tried to will Alysanne to calm as well. Jon had reached out with his hand and held his wolf in a firm grip. Sansa tried to do the same, but her hands were shaking. Thankfully Alysanne stayed at Ghost’s side. “A Frey,” she heard someone exclaim and from the edge of her blurred vision she could see that the Mormont men had to restrain someone.

The stunned silence in the hall, interrupted by the grunts of someone fighting against being restrained, and the snarls of the wolves had her hackles rising. Olyvar was sweating and looked like he was ready to faint, but he remained on his knees, refraining from moving away. “I am Olyvar Frey, and Roslin Frey was my sister. I slept under your roof tonight, but I did not eat your bread. Do with me as you want, but I beg you to accept Hoster. Lady Sansa, you are all he has left. Let him find safety and family here.” Sansa finally felt tears fall, her heart went out to the little frightened boy. Her gaze wandered to Jon who nodded shortly to her unvoiced question. She struggled to regain her voice. “We would not drive any children from Winterfell let alone my cousin,” she finally managed to get out. “As for you, this is a decision for the king.” Jon shook his head. “No, this is a decision for the Gods, Olyvar Frey. Your family murdered Lady Catelyn, many of my bannermen have lost family at the Red Wedding and my beloved brother, King Robb, was murdered and his body was defiled. But you came here to bring your nephew to safety knowing that it could mean your own life. If the Old Gods want revenge they will say so.” Olyvar took a deep breath and the wolves settled down, first Ghost and then Alysanne. Sansa had the feeling as if her blood that had felt as if it was frozen rushed again through her veins and somehow her brain started thinking again. Jon prepared to get up to proceed to the Godswood, but Sansa caught him by his sleeve. “Olyvar Frey, tell us, did you see Lady Karstark as prisoner at the Twins?”

“The only prisoner I ever saw was Edmure Tully. But there were deep dungeons at the Twins and I was neither in my father’s council nor in my brothers’ and it is easily possible that there were prisoners I knew nothing about. I was squire to the Young Wolf at the Whispering Wood and my father sent me away before the Red Wedding. I did not know about his plans, but I did know that he planned something and I regret that I was stupid enough to think that very unpleasant negotiations were all my father had in mind.” Sansa was not sure, if she believed Olyvar, but at least his story did not contradict Lady Alys’ and the truth would come out at the weirwood tree. Sansa risked a look at the side and realised that one of the Mormont men had a firm grip on Lady Alys. She must have tried to reach Olyvar the moment she realised who he was. _Well, being a prisoner for three years at the mercy of a family that had no qualms about violating the most ancient laws must have been a bad experience._

“How did you escape the attack on the Twins, whatever it was? What about Lord Edmure?”, Jon wanted to know. Olyvar finally decided to rise, but stood in a downcast way. “My sister wanted Lord Edmure freed. He had been a prisoner for more than five years and he had become very ill. He had lost much weight. My sister was allowed to visit him from time to time. She seized the opportunity when Lord Ryman had died and yet another new lord of the Twins had to be raised. The Twins were in an uproar. She cut her hair and traded places with her husband. Lord Edmure, Hoster and I left the Twins by night.” Olyvar took a shaky breath. “Lord Edmure had already decided to make for Winterfell the moment he heard that Lady Sansa was here. We dared the Kingsroad since Lord Edmure was so weak and we were not pursued. I wondered about that. If what Sandor Clegane said, is true, there was nobody alive to follow us. Roslin is probably dead as well.” “And where is Lord Edmure?”, Jon asked. Sansa could see Olyvar’s eyes glistening. “He was too weak for the hardship of the road. He took a fever and died within a few hours. With his last breath, he made me promise to go on to Winterfell.”, he concluded his tale.

Sansa felt torn. She had taken pity at Olyvar, but she also mistrusted everything a Frey would say. She felt like a heavy blanket had settled on her whole body and had extinguished the warmth that had been hers only this morning. Alysanne felt her mood and came to lick her hand and Ghost pushed himself between herself and Jon, a comforting presence. Jon gave a signal for the guards to lead the way and stood up: “We will now bring this before the Gods.” He looked sternly at the petitioners Alaric, Lady Alys, Sandor and Olyvar Frey. “Lady Alys,” he said. “I suppose Edric here would appreciate, if you could just stop to struggle. Your cases will be brought before the Gods and if the God judge Olyvar Frey to be innocent, you will abide by their command.” Surprisingly, Alys stopped, although her face was still set in a scowl and her whole posture showed her anger and frustration. “As Your Grace commands,” she said. Sansa was glad, that Alys could restrain herself. The last thing little Hoster would need was violence.

Jon turned to her and lent her an arm and they made to follow the guards and the petitioners to the Godswood. Lady Lyanna came to their side. “Your grace, Lady Sansa, I am so sorry, that you had no preparation for this. I should have checked their names and their stories, but they only arrived yesterday.” _That must be the first time I see Lyanna Mormont contrite._ “Don’t trouble yourself, Lady Lyanna,” she said. “How could you have verified their stories, when they waited until they came in our presence. No harm has been done. Let’s just hope, that the Gods listen today. Otherwise we’ll probably have to confine them all, in case their thoughts turn to murder.” She shook her head, wondering about what the Gods would say to these three. “Apart from the singer, perhaps,” Jon added. “He seems quite harmless.” Feeling Jon at her side, Sansa’s inner turmoil began to calm down. When they left the hall, Jon shortly put his mouth to her ear and put to words what she herself felt. “I am so glad, you were here with me today.” He straightened up again and spoke louder, so that Lyanna would hear as well. “Remind me, Sansa, that I’ll never complain about tedious petitions again. I do think, the Gods have a very nasty way to fulfil my wishes.”


	7. Voices in the weirwood tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Alys Karstark' is brought to the Godswood, and King Jon and Sansa let the Gods decide on the fate of Olyvar Frey, Sandor Clegane and 'Alys'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably can imagine who the voice in the weirwood is, but nobody knows that. It is my headcanon that Bran would be quite sassy about his abilities and knowledge.  
> There is a reason, that he hasn't declosed R+L=J yet.

Alys was at a loss. _Why do we go to the Godswood? What is all this business with the ‘Gods listening’?_ The part of her that was Arya was at a loss as well. Praying to the Gods was a private business. Arya Stark could only remember quiet hours with her family at the weirwood tree, nothing so formal. She had no idea what would happen and what would be expected of her. _Will I have to shed my face?_ _Will the Gods recognize me?_

The petition had gone well, up to the moment Jon had asked about the Twins. Alys’ mind had gone blank and she had just felt dread. Lady Sansa had saved her, but Alys did not know if she should be grateful. It was obvious that King Jon and Lady Sansa had done petitions like that many times. Alys had been quite sure that King Jon had even looked slightly bored, before Alaric had asked for a place. It was also obvious, that King Jon and Lady Sansa were used to decide together. Alys was not sure how she felt about that. The king and his sister had looked so much like Arya’s father and mother that it had hurt to see them sitting at the high table of the hall. At the same time, the scene had evoked a feeling of warmth in her, she had not anticipated. And her brain was still furiously working around the fact that Jon and Sansa seemed to work very well together. Sometimes they had whispered and encouraged each other. It was obvious that the news from the Twins, the appearance of the Hound and the Frey had thrown them of balance, but they had somehow regained their composure together. Alys was perturbed. _What does it mean that they are so close?_ _Could the rumours be true?_

Seeing that many people at the weirwood tree was a strange sight to Alys. The direwolves of the King and the Lady Hand were close by and they were joined by two others, Alys had not seen yet. She saw Lady Sansa petting the two new wolves. Her boys came along with a woman who probably was their nurse and with them ran the direwolves Socks and Gloves, Alys had seen yesterday. Sam and Gilly and their children were with them. The wolves happily circled each other and began to play. Sansa shooed them away and she and Jon went to the Weirwood tree. They stood to the right and the left of the tree and each put a hand on the bark. Both their faced changed with a concentrated look. Some of the tension and stress Alys had seen in their faces gave way to relaxation, and if Alys was right, a sliver of hope. Only a little later King Jon gave the order to bring forth Olyvar Frey.

The Frey was frightened, Alys could see that and she briefly wondered if these strange gods, she knew nothing about, would strike him down. He briefly disentangled his legs from Hoster’s embrace and gently led the boy to Gilly. Hoster knew Gilly from the journey and calmed down, when the Frey gave him an encouraging smile, that at least to Alys looked ragged at the edges. But when the young man tentatively put his hands to the tree, he just made a very surprised face and nothing else happened. After a little while, Lady Sansa and King Jon stepped back and the Frey was standing in front of the tree, now a concentrated frown on his face. King Jon raised his hands and spoke with a loud and clear voice: “The gods gave their judgement and their visions of the future were as clear as we could wish. Olyvar Frey spoke true. They do not judge him guilty of the Red Wedding. He will be a Stark man from this day on.”

Alys stood stunned and barely registered that Edric, the guardsman assigned to her, had put himself before her as if he wanted to block her way. King Jon shook Olyvar’s shoulder and the young man stared with wide eyes at the King. “Are these the White Walkers?”, he asked.

King Jon looked at him, not unfriendly, although his face remained serious. “The gods show us vision of possible futures. Sometime this helps us decide. It is obvious, that you will be fighting for the North.”

“But why should the gods show me a tourney, of all things?”, the Frey asked. “I was riding in a tourney and I had a very strange lady’s favour. What does that mean?”  

“Perhaps they wanted to show you something nice, after that other vision.”, King Jon answered. The Frey wagged his head, as if he tried to clear his thoughts.

“Kneel, Olyvar Frey”, King Jon said. There was murmuring, when King Jon accepted the fealty of Olyvar Frey and promised him shelter and bread at his table, but nobody spoke against it. Olyvar Frey stood again and little Hoster who had lurked behind Gilly ran to him and hugged him, still eerily without words.

Alys was troubled and nervous. These gods were far more active than Arya remembered. Arya only remembered silence and sometimes the whispering of leaves in a breeze, but nothing like this. _What will happen, when it’s my time to put my hands to the weirwood?_

She wished it would be over soon, but, apparently, the King and his Hand had decided to first put Sandor Clegane to the test. The Hound was led to the tree flanked by two wary guardsmen. Again, the King and Lady Sansa touched the tree and the Hound laid his hand on the bark as well. This time, Lady Sansa frowned shortly, and both, she and the King retreated their hands. The Hound stood still for a moment and then gave a startled yelp and shook his hand as if he had burned it. The result was the same as with Olyvar, though. The Hound was allowed to swear fealty and Alys shuffled her feet nervously, because she guessed it would be her turn.

Edric led her to the tree and Alys was angry with herself that her hand shook visibly, when she extended her hand to the tree. Lady Sansa gave her a reassuring smile. “The Gods know many things, and some might be embarrassing, but they are friendly, and they never disclose anything you do  not want to get known.”

Alys was only slightly comforted, but she took heart and touched the cragged bark. All at once, she felt a presence in her head, a feeling that reminded her of the times she had shared her skin with her direwolf. A feeling of longing overcame her and she reached out to the presence. _Finally, you are here._ It was a voice echoing in her head as if she heard someone from a great distance, the echo of a great hall carrying the sound towards her. The timbre of the voice would have reminded Arya of her father and Alys felt a tug at her heart and her face suddenly felt numb. Alys concentrated on the story she had told during the petitions, her imprisonment at the Twins, her escape after the bloodbath, her need for revenge. She was so intent on this, that she only heard the voice in tree in a very low whisper. It was only after a while, that she realised, that the voice talked to King Jon and Lady Sansa and that she was not meant to understand. She strained, but the meaning of the words eluded her.

Suddenly, she saw the stars of a clear winter night. Her feet were balanced on a small gap in a wall. Above her she could see a window and a man in Stark colours. The direwolf stood out on his breast, the grey wolf looking very dark against the white. _That’s one of Sansa’s men._ On the windowsill just before him stood little Hoster, and the man had him in a tight grip. He looked at Alys expectantly and when she looked at her hands she saw a rope hastily put together from bedsheets in her hands. A strange weight was on her back and when she turned her head she saw directly into a pair of blue eyes under a mob of curls.

Alys yelped and withdrew her hand from the tree. _That was  one of Sansa’s twins, riding on my back._ She felt King Jon’s and Lady Sansa’s gaze on her face. _Was I Arya or did I still wear Alys’ face?_ She drew a calming breath. Neither the King nor Lady Sansa shouted out, that she was Arya, and Alys regained her composure.

Lady Sansa smiled. “Please, Lady Alys,” she said. “Put your hand on the tree again. The gods want to talk to you alone.”

 _“Took you long enough to finally come home.”_ Alys heard the strange echoing voice in her head again, when she did as Lady Sansa had bid. _“I’ve called you for such a long time, but you were so intent on your vengeance, that you did not listen.”_ Alys tried to think to that voice, explaining, how she had been a prisoner at the twins. All she got as an answer was something that could only be described as a chuckle.

 _“Arya,”_ the voice said. _“Stop this game.”_

Alys stood still. Even though she had feared that the Gods would see through her face, now it had happened, she did not know what to say.

“ _You did not hear me. What’s done is done. We cannot undo your vengeance and neither can we undo the curse of the many-faced God.”_ Alys shuddered.

 _Why not?_ , she asked silently. _I want to be Arya again. I want Jon and Sansa to see me, not some woman they don’t know. Can’t you undo that damn curse, that a Stark must die for my vengeance?_

_“I cannot undo the past, not without unforeseeable repercussions. You had your vengeance, you lost Nymeria, you lost the wolf pack that could have been very useful here. You should be grateful, that the Many-Faced God only claims one Stark live for all the lives you took at the Twins and for your use of his secrets for your own cause.”_

Alys felt Arya’s anger take over. _They deserved to die, they violated guest right, they killed my mother and my brother._

_“True enough, and I dare say it will be some time, before anyone violates guest right again. The singers will sing of the Revenge of the Wolves for many decades…. If there will be singers left, when all is over.”_

For the first time, since she had exacted her revenge on the Freys, Alys felt guilt kick in. _I did not know,_ she thought at the voice. _I am sorry I did not hear your call._

_“Take heart, Arya Stark, all is not lost. We can still prevail. But for now, it will be best if you stay Alys Karstark. There might be something that can be done about that, but we’ll have to see.”_

Alys felt her eyes fill. Defiantly, she rubbed her eyes with her free hand.

_“And you best try to keep that Frey alive. He might be our chance for averting the curse.”_

Alys nodded. _I’ll try._

 _“And don’t do anything rash.”_ It was almost an afterthought.

Alys stepped back from the tree and was surprised to see Lady Sansa smile at her. She extended her hand. “Lady Karstark, be welcome at our court.”

Alys did not take Sansa’s hand. “I’m not going to be a court lady,” she said. King Jon and Lady Sansa both laughed and Alys felt a pang at their simultaneous laughter.

Jon smiled: “Don’t fret. You can do as you wish, even fight, if that is what you want.”

“Did you see the same vision I saw?”, Alys asked. “What does it mean?”

Sansa shook her head. “We don’t know. And it may not come to pass, but if I read the vision correctly, you will be loyal.” She smiled a genuine smile.

“You remind me of my sister Arya,” she added, and Jon nodded.

Alys was suspicious. “I’m not sure, if this is a compliment,” she said. That only made Jon and Sansa laugh harder, and again in unison.

They were not done, yet. Alaric the singer, was the last to be led to the tree. His conversation with the Gods seemed to fluster him and he had a stricken look after he had let go of the tree. Alys was not surprised. That strange echoing voice could unbalance even the most cynic person.

“Are the Gods always like that?”, Alaric asked. Like Alys he had been subject to a moment alone at the weirwood tree.

“What do you mean?”, asked Lady Sansa.

“They… “, Alaric hesitated. “He… That voice…. I would say it was a joke… I was counselled on my song for this evening.” He looked at Sansa as if he evaluated her anew, a puzzled frown on his face.

“They can be rather outspoken,” she admitted. “When I heard their voice for the first time…” She gave a short laugh. “They warned me about Petyr Baelish and I remember well, how they spoke about the Lord of Harrenhal and Protector of the Vale.”

“What did they say?”, Alaric asked.

Sansa smiled. “They told me to remember that he was a pimp, and that he thought like a pimp. That was sound advice, even if not put into words you would expect from Gods.”

“If the Gods gave you advice on your song, you should certainly heed it.” Jon said. “Usually they talk about more important issues than songs.” It seemed to Alys that the mention of Petyr Baelish had soured the king’s mood for a moment.

Lady Sansa raised her hands. “Before we leave the Godswood for the hall and a small feast, I call you all to witness a joyous occasion! The woman Gilly has petitioned today to have leave to wed the black brother Samwell Tarly and we granted that petition. Gilly, come forward before the Gods!” She must have _done that this morning._ If Alys remembered correctly, Lyanna Mormont had fetched Gilly early.

Gilly did as she was told and took Sam’s hand. They proceeded to the tree. King Jon asked the ritual questions and he and Sansa stood as witnesses to Sam’s and Gilly’s vows. _They look so happy._ Gilly looked very serious and solemn, but her cheeks were coloured and Sam was fidgeting and beaming a wide smile at the same time. They put their hands on the tree and stood in awe for a moment. Gilly burst into tears.

“They blessed us, Sam,” she whispered excitedly. “The Gods blessed us.”

King Jon clapped Sam on the back and offered his congratulations. He said something about the fact that at least one good thing had come from the night watch’s expedition to Craster’s keep. Alys did not understand what he meant. _Seems, that Sam did not boast, when he told me, that he knew Jon._ It made her feel strange, that she had been journeying with Sam for weeks and had not realised that he did not only know the former Lord Commander, but that he was even a close friend. _There are many things, I don’t know about Jon and Sansa. It is all so long ago._

Sansa called her sons to give their respect to the Gods and they came forward. Alys looked closely at their faces. _That boy riding on my back in the vision. That was one of them. What does it mean? Why do I have a little boy on my back in the middle of the night, climbing or descending a make-shift rope?_

Apparently, Eddard and Rickon did not yet have the knack of talking to the Gods only with their thoughts. Alys was amused to hear them both talk about their day, that they had made two new friends. They both talked at once, finished each other sentences and interrupted each other. Both were so eager to tell everything. _The Gods must have difficulties to tell them apart as well. And they must be very patient._

“We had our special afternoon yesterday,” one of the boys finally said. “We went sleighing with Mom and Uncle Jon. We went so fast, we fell from the sled. We were all soaked in the evening, and Mom made us take a bath.” Both the boys’ faces suddenly went very sullen. They both protested. “That’s not fair!”, but after a while, they both said. “We promise.”

“What did the Gods say?”, Sansa asked smiling at the twins.

“They made us promise to listen to you if you send us to the bath.” That had a lot of people snickering and Alys felt a genuine smile on her face. _At least Sansa is still intent on having a clean family._ She could easily picture the Lady of Winterfell sending the children to the bath in a stern voice.

One of the boys tugged his mother at her sleeve. When she bent down, he whispered something in her ears. Sansa stood up.

“Hoster, come here”, she called. Hoster Tully came reluctantly. He clung to Olyvar’s hand. Sansa bent down again. “Hoster,” she said. “I am your cousin Sansa. My mother was your father’s sister. Do you understand that?” Hoster nodded.

“It means that you are safe here and under my protection. You and your uncle will stay with us. These are my sons, Eddard and Rickon. They want to get to know you.”

Eddard and Rickon went forward. Alys thought it was funny, that they looked so solemn and tried to be very serious about their business. “Welcome”, one of them said. “The Gods told us that you will be our friend. Do you want to be our friend?”

Hoster looked at them wide-eyed, still very timid. He made a gesture that was something between a shrug of the shoulders and a nod.

“It’s going to be great. We were just the two of us and now we are five. Sam and Melara are friends as well.” Eddard – or was it Rickon? – said.

“How old are you? We are almost three” the other boy asked.

Hoster raised his hands and showed five fingers.

“Aha, five, like Sam.” The boy pointed with a finger to Olyvar. “That’s your uncle Jon, isn’t it?”

Hoster looked puzzled at the boys.

Eddard – or Rickon – rolled his eyes impatiently. “There is our mom,” he pointed at Sansa. “That’s the mom of Sam and Melara,” he pointed at Gilly.

“That’s our uncle Jon,” the other boy added and pointed at the king. He wrinkled his nose. “I suppose that’s Sam’s and Melara’s uncle John,” he pointed at the black brother, and suddenly seemed unsure, “although they call him daddy.” Alys could hear a few suppressed laughters at that and was herself quite amused at the garbled account of family connections.

“So, what’s your uncle Jon called?”

Hoster who had been intimidated by all this pointing suddenly and quite shockingly found his voice. “Uncle Olyvar,” he answered. The corners of his mouth went upward as Alys had never seen before in several weeks of travelling. “His name is Olyvar. He brought me here, to safety.”

Shockingly, the Frey seemed overwhelmed with emotions. “Hoster, you’ve talked!” His voice was raw and brisk and Alys could see tears glistening in his eyes.


	8. The truth of a song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos gets a welcoming feast in the hall of Winterfell and a song about the battle of the bastards is sung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of in-between chapter I thought was necessary. I introduced Alaric the singer, because his comments on Northern politics via songs will become interesting.   
> I hope that this does not feel to irrelevant. Next chapter will be about the effects of the song on Alys/Arya.  
> This fic is getting longer and longer, but it is fun to write.   
> Please, tell me if you like it. Kudos and comments keep me going.

Jon wished that they had not decided to give a small welcoming feast for Ser Davos who had come back only yesterday. The petitions and the whole day with all the raw emotions of hearing about Arya and remembering the Red Wedding had left him so exhausted that he was not in the mood to sit at the High table and converse with some of his more troublesome and prickly lords. It didn’t help that he had been up early. There were bound to be questions, about Arya, about the fate of the Freys and what the Gods had said about Olyvar Frey, about the repercussions of having the rightful heir of the Riverlands in Winterfell and Jon had no answer to any of them.

The children were sent to bed and Jon smiled when he saw how ready little Sam, Melassa and Hoster were to give in to the lead of Eddard and Rickon. The twins had decided that it would be so much fun to have them all in one chamber, that they adamantly refused to listen to any of the sensible arguments of Marisa or Maester Wolkan about the size of the chamber. Sansa whispered with Marisa, and then the nurse sided with the children until Maester Wolkan gave up and the servants were ordered to arrange additional bedding. The children left eagerly talking and even giggling, after they had waved good bye. Even shy Hoster was obviously comfortable and just gave his uncle a short hug.

When he came to the high table, Jon was surprised to see Sansa rearrange the seating order. She smiled sweetly and told Lord Manderly, that the bridal couple would have to be honoured, and when Jon took his seat, Ser Davos sat at his right, but Sam and Gilly were sitting between himself and Sansa, and not Lord Manderly. It meant that Jon could not talk to Sansa, but it also meant that dinner would be far more pleasant than he had anticipated. Jon wondered how Sansa had read his mind.

Before food was served, Jon stood.

“Today, several men and women came to join our cause, and this is a reason to be thankful and we welcome all these men and women, who are willing to stand with us in the Long Night that is to come. The young lord of the Riverlands has come here to seek shelter with his cousin, the Lady Sansa, and we granted it to him and his uncle.” Jon refrained from reminding people that this uncle was named Olyvar Frey.

“We welcome Sandor Clegane and Alys Karstark in our household and we are pleased that Maester Samwell Tarly, a black brother, has come here to be wedded to Gilly of the Free Folk. But the honour of this feast goes to Ser Davos Seaworth. Ser Davos has braved the winter seas once more to bring us Dragon glass. Since the Dragon queen still refuses to negotiate for dragon glass, unless the North bends the knee…“ Jon was interrupted by shouts of “Never, never”, and “Stark, Stark.” And “The king in the North”.

Jon raised his hands to silence the crowds. His bannermen had voiced their opinion in the council in a similar vein when Sansa’s and his efforts to negotiate with Queen Cersei’s deadly enemy were broached. “Ser Davos skill in obtaining goods in an unusual manner is of the utmost importance.” There were occasional sniggers. “We would name him the king’s smuggler, if there was a title like that.” The hall broke into shouts and claps and several men raised their glasses to toast Ser Davos with Jon.

Jon could see, that the older man felt embarrassed, and he felt a bit sorry for the Onion knight who had resumed his smuggling ways for his king, but Ser Davos was not prone to brood and since he remembered Samwell Tarly from the Wall, they started an amiable talk. There was a brief moment of awkwardness when Ser Davos expressed his condolences on the death of Sam’s father. Jon thought he saw a brief glimpse of guilt in Sam’s eyes, but soon Sam found his good mood again, when Ser Davos told him and Jon about his latest smuggling adventures and Sam vividly described how Gilly had managed to thwart the considerable efforts of about every maester in the citadel to hinder her insatiable hunger for learning. With half an ear, Jon could hear that Sansa and Gilly were exchanging children’s stories and giggling and he was torn between being amused by Davos and Sam and being frustrated because he really loved to hear about Eddard and Rickon. It was a pleasure to listen to Sansa telling little stories about the twins. She never bragged about them, but she knew how to tell their little adventures in a very amusing way. Jon was sure that swapping children stories with Gilly was a welcome distraction for Sansa and he recognized her laughter as the laughter with a slight odd ringing to it that went along with a certain mood of Sansa’s he had come to know very well. She was not really in good humour, but she was friendly, smiling, even joking and giggling as if to gloss over the fact that some of their worries lay heavily on her mind.

Jon stopped worrying about it when the singer Alaric finally asked permission to perform his song. He bowed with a flourish Jon thought exaggerated, but when he started his song about the battle of the Bastards, the hall fell silent. He had a nice voice and the tune was catchy. The song had a chorus “The wolves are back in Winterfell”, and by the time Alaric had sung several verses the audience chimed in with the chorus. Jon felt uncomfortable listening to a song about the battle that had given him nightmares for a long time and he glanced at Sansa several times, afraid that she would have nasty memories as well. It was only at about the middle of the song that he realised that Alaric had managed to describe the battle without once mentioning the name of the Boltons. He used vivid descriptions like the ‘mad dog of the Dreadfort’ or the ‘treacherous tyrant’, but not once did he name the enemy. He praised the valiant deeds of the ‘white wolf’, which was only to be expected, but he included also the ‘lady knight’, although Brienne had not been there, and made a joke about the ‘onion’ nobody managed to cut. Jon wondered briefly, if Alaric had put that in after hearing about Davos’ smuggling. The singer managed to omit Littlefinger when he described the climax of the battle and the ‘red flag’ of Sansa’s hair at the head of the army of the Vale. Jon smiled despite himself, but he was shaken when the song reached the aftermath of the battle. Jon did not know if Alaric had somehow guessed right or if this end to the battle was more widely known than he thought, but Alaric described vividly how the ‘white wolf’ had almost beaten Ramsay to death only to stop at the last minute when Sansa came.

But he was really surprised when Alaric’s song went even beyond that. There was a verse about Sansa who sentenced the ‘evil enemy’ to death and promised him that his name would never be spoken again in the North. Alaric finished with an allusion to the tune of the ‘Rains of Castamere’ even Jon recognized and explained that the wolves’ revenge meant not only the death of the whole family, but the extinction of any memory. He ended with a description of Sansa’s hair glowing in the firelight of the renewed hall of Winterfell. Jon was a bit frightened how well Alaric’s song was received.

 _He should know nothing about the last hour of Ramsay. Sansa never told anybody but me. He should not know about me beating Ramsay._   Jon remembered that very well, the blinding rage that had driven him towards Ramsay, his grief for Rickon, his thirst for revenge and the immense hunger to cave in the face of the man who had dared to touch and to hurt Sansa. He also remembered coming back from this blood-soaked daze when he felt Sansa’s eyes on him. Until this very day, he still did not know why he had stopped then. _Did I think that Ramsay was hers to kill or did I not want her to see me as a beast, even then?_

Jon did not dare to look at Sansa. Even if he himself had come to terms with his feelings for her, he still burned with shame when he thought that anybody besides Sansa herself might realise how he felt.

His bannermen felt no unease about the song, they clapped loudly and called for more. Even Lord Manderly had recovered his usual boisterous mood and demanded a song about other Stark kings. Alaric obliged, he left out all the sad songs and praised one Stark victory after the other. The song about the ‘Battle of the Bastards’ was not the only one, that was unfamiliar to Jon. The singer had obviously prepared well and had devised several new songs and soon the small welcome feast for Davos became overly joyous and more beer had to be brought. Alaric was asked to repeat ‘The wolves are back’ again and again until he claimed that his throat was sore and he could not possibly sing another song. Jon was sure that he had looked at him and Sansa the last time when he sang about the ‘white wolf’ leaving the revenge to his ‘sweet sister’. Jon wondered if the singer wanted to hint at his doomed love. _Maybe I am more obvious than I’m aware of._

Jon was roused from his feelings of discomfort, when Sam nudged him and pointed to Sansa. Sansa had a blush on her cheeks that was very becoming to her and she leaned over.

“We’ll keep him Jon. Look, how all the people are carried along. Even the kitchen maids came listening. It will be useful to have him here to lighten the mood, even if he has no idea how to fight. You will not praise yourself, but Alaric has proven that he can do that very well.”

She had not spoken very loudly, but Davos and Sam had heard and they nodded vigorously. _I can hardly argue that I don’t want him here, because he might hint at my feelings._ And Sansa looked so radiant and excited, that he gave a slight nod. _It might only be my imagination after all. Alaric has just arrived how could he know about my feelings. And the Gods said that he might be useful._

When the feast came to an end, Jon made a round through the hall. He stopped here and there, asking after family, congratulating on this and that, clapping shoulders. As always, he felt a bit awkward when he mimicked his late father’s behaviour. No matter how often he did that he never felt entirely secure doing this. Sansa always told him, that he did well, that it didn’t really matter, that it felt strange to him. People would see that he cared and that was important. _If Sansa would be my queen she could just stand beside me. It would be so much easier then._

When he spotted Olyvar, who had chosen a seat in the background, he was pleased to see Podrick Payne and Lyanna Mormont next to him. It looked like the Frey did not have to sit all alone for the whole evening. Jon thanked Lady Lyanna for the preparation of the petitions, but she snorted.

“I’ll make amends for my sloppiness,” she said. “If it pleases your grace, I’ll teach that Southron over there, how to behave like a true Northman.” She pointed at Olyvar. “Ser Podrick will help me.”

To Jon it was clear, that she meant to have an eye on the suspicious Frey, but at least she hadn’t explicitly said so, and Lady Lyanna was fair, if harsh, and if he acquitted himself well, Olyvar would have a chance. He certainly would have a chance with Podrick. _Sansa always says that Pod is too kind-hearted to be the captain of our household, but his loyalty is beyond question._

Jon gave an encouraging handshake to Olyvar.

“I am sure, that you won’t have much to learn. My brother Robb would not have had a worthless or honourless squire. And Ser Podrick is not from the North himself. This should guarantee that it won’t take long for you to adjust.”

That should be enough to give the young man a hint, that Jon did not expect him to be Lady Lyanna’s errand boy in the time to come.

 _Now for the singer._ Jon continued his circuit and reached the last bench in the hall. Alys Karstark and Sandor Clegane had chosen to sit next to each other not far from where the singer had been seated after his performance. Alys set her eyes on him, a troubled and disconcerting look, and Jon remembered the warning of the Gods. _‘She is dangerous, more than you can possibly fathom. Other Gods have touched her and she is almost beyond my reach. But if you win her over, it will be well worth it. Treat her like you would treat your sister Arya.’_ Jon had wondered about this strange warning and the fast, yet vivid flashes of dead people in a dark barely lit hall that might have been Winterfell came along with it, but the Gods had not deigned to explain.

The singer had sprung to his feet and gave another one of his elaborate bows. Jon waved impatiently and he straightened up again.

“Did you like my song, your grace?” he asked. Jon could see, that for all his performance behaviour that had played exactly to his audience’s expectations, he was nervous. He fiddled with his long fingers.

“Well done,” Jon answered. “Some details were even surprisingly close to the truth.”

“Songs are usually just stupid. They never tell the truth,” Alys barged in. Jon looked up and met Alys’ eyes. There was an air of sullenness about her he could not explain.

“Lady Alys, considering I was present, I think, that I would be a better judge as to what is true about the battle and what is not.” Jon said.

Alys flushed and Jon gave her a smile to show her that he had just teased her. “Perhaps you would like to guess at what happened?”

“I bet you never were stupid enough to fall for the trap, the bastard of the Dreadfort set for you,” Alys answered.

“Unfortunately, you are wrong there, Lady Alys. That was just as Alaric told. I was lucky to survive the battle.”

“So, it is true, that Lady Sansa and the knights of the Vale saved the day?”, she asked.

“Yes, that part is true, but it is also quite commonly known, perhaps not in the South.”, Jon admitted.

“So, what is not true?”, she asked.

“Lady Brienne was not with us on that day, but I’m sure she would have fought as valiantly as Alaric imagined.” Jon answered.

Alys mumbled something, but when Jon looked at her questioningly she shook her head, perhaps a bit intimidated or as if remembering that it was not her place to question the king in the North on the details of the battle.

“Not to speak the name of our enemies was quite cleverly done,” Jon told the singer. He hoped to get at the bottom of why he had knowledge of Ramsay’s death.

Alaric fiddled with his fingers again.

“I was advised to do that, your Grace,” he admitted. “The Gods were gracious and gave me a short vision of the battle.”

His eyes scrutinized Jon’s face and Jon could not help himself. He felt caught and found out. He felt ashamed that this total stranger would have seen even only this small part of his shame. He was angry at the Gods. Why would they show how he had almost beaten Ramsay to death to this singer?

 _‘This is not about what you feel,’_ he heard them, remembering one of his visits to the Godswood when he had poured his heart out. _‘There is no need to be ashamed of your feelings, Jon. What is important is if and how you will act on your feelings. Be steadfast, hold your love close in your heart. Keep it secret.’_

Jon frowned. It was often useless to try to understand the Gods as helpful they often were. He hoped that this slight indication of disfavour would silence any further questions from anybody. Somehow, he had the feeling that Alaric knew exactly why he felt discomfited and he decided not to try to get at the bottom of it, at least not under the watchful eyes of Alys Karstark.

_If the Gods advise me not to let anybody know about my love for Sansa, why are **they** so careless?_

It was Alaric who broke the silence before it became unbearable.

“The Gods advised me that if I wanted to please Lady Sansa, I should better not mention the name of your fell foes.” Alaric said with a shaky smile.

Jon had to laugh despite himself. “They were right,” he admitted. “From now on, we will call all our enemies ‘fell foes’ or ‘dastard bastard’, and hope that they’ll have the same fate as the bastard of the Dreadfort. Sansa will like that.”

Alaric smiled. “Yes, I could see that the Gods were right about that, although no singer likes to be criticized for his verse.”

Jon’s curiosity was piqued. “What did they say?”

“They told me to avoid a certain name on all costs. And then they told me that ‘Against Bolton, hold on’ was not one of my better ideas anyway.”, Alaric confessed.

Jon could hear Sandor Clegane giving a raspy laugh and a short bark from Alys.

“I think I’ll try to forget that rhyme as soon as possible.”, Jon said and relinquished his frown, “and it will remain our secret. That way I’ll have some leverage over you, but I won’t ever force you to sing something you don’t want to sing.”

“That’s a relief,” Alaric said, bowing another time, when Jon turned to finally find the way to his bed.


	9. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alys/Arya dream of the Twins and wanders the castle at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter of my super slow-burn fic. There is a reason why Jonsa is so slow-burn in this fic. Just be patient. I know, I'm not a fast writer and I have a busy month ahead, but I hope it's worth the waiting.

Arya dreamt of the Twins. _She had slipped into the skin of Nymeria, like she had done on that fateful night. But her sight was much more blurred than it had been. The place smelled of fear and blood. The taste of blood was on her tongue and she could feel the dying of her pack. Her own body was feathered with arrows and she was wounded. Her gait was unstable and she limped. Yet, she was looking for two-legged survivors she could finish. Slowly the big direwolf made her way to the stairs, where some of the other wolves had pursued the two-legged. The stairs went down into the dark, but there were torches and Nymeria could smell the humans. When she had limped far down she could see that the two-legged were fighting her wolves. She joined in the fight and even wounded she made short work of their prey. The part of her that was occupied by her warg-mate realised that she was in a prison. Prisons made her angry. The two-legged had opened the doors. Maybe they wanted the wolves to attack the starved prisoners, maybe some had wanted to free the prisoners; Nymeria was not interested in that, the thought drifted into her from Arya. Her instincts were on letting the humans pay for hurting her pack. She leapt at a thin and bony female that had only a ridiculously feeble stick in her hand and tore her throat out. She turned and saw three wolves that had circled another female, that had emerged from one of the prisons. The three remaining wolves tore her down as well and Nymeria came closer. The girl’s cloak had a bright yellow stain on it, and Nymeria could feel that it reminded her warg-mate of something. For a moment, the smell of snow was in her nose. The girl had been dead, the moment she touched the floor. Sometimes it happened that way, prey could die of panic and fear. Nymeria had reached the other wolves and dropped on the floor, just beside the girl. When the other wolves wanted to tear her apart she snapped at them. The thought from her warg-mate had been clear: ‘Not that one, we need her face, that’s the Karstark girl!’ Nymeria could not grasp the meaning of that, but she felt her warg-mate’s desperation. It smelled of the familiarity of pack and home, of her siblings lost so long ago. So, Nymeria sat down to defend the girl from the other wolves. She would die soon, but she might be able to hold on, until her warg-mate arrived. While she drifted off, she remembered the smell of Winterfell her siblings and the happy days of romping about with her siblings and their warg-mates. For a moment, she could feel her silent brother, as if he was nearer than he had been for years._

Alys woke with a start. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the ache of Nymeria’s death, like Arya had felt it. It was different in the dream though. _Did Nymeria think about Ghost in the end?_ Alys touched her face, and her fingers tingled. She could feel the skin of her face with the tip of her fingers, but her face was without feeling.

_Alys, I’m Alys Karstark. I was a prisoner at the twins, and now I’m part of the Stark household._

She got up. It was no use, she knew from past experiences, that she would not manage to get any sleep after dreaming of the Twins. She would wander about, try to get a feeling for the corridors, Alys did not know. It might help her clear her head. _That song. Jon was upset about the song. Why? What exactly did Alaric tell to make Jon so flustered._ The king had hidden it well, but Alys had noticed. She was not sure what to think. _Could the rumours be right?_ It was unthinkable really, but Alys was disturbed. The king and his sister were very close, that was obvious, but were they doing it the Lannister way? Alys could have slapped herself. She had been so overawed by the presence of the Gods in the weirwood tree that she had forgotten to ask about Jon and Sansa. She would have to find out some other way. She was good with servants, if anybody could tell her, that something was going on, it was the servants. And she could do some sniffing of her own.

_There is no way I’ll go to the Gods just to ask if my brother and my sister are fucking._ The experience had been so unnerving that Alys did not know if she would dare again to go any way near the weirwood tree.

While she wandered the corridors on silent feet, she thought about the whole crazy day. Yes, Sansa and Jon had been close, but nobody seemed to think that anything was amiss. Still, it was so odd. Sansa did not act like the king’s sister or what Arya thought how the king’s sister should act. She had sat by the King’s side, counselling him, giving judgement with him, he even deferred to her in some cases. So, she wasn’t really the hand of the king. She was something more, but what? A lover? The Sansa, Arya had known would have been deeply unhappy with a messed-up situation like that. A proper lady would never be the mistress of her brother, posing as his hand, her bastard brother’s bed-mate? If Alys had it right, Arya remembered that Sansa had been quite strict in terming her brother correctly as her half-brother.

Her feet had taken her to the corridors of the Lord’s chamber. Arya remembered going along this corridor after having nightmares, but Alys was lost. But she was curious as well and she went into the corridor. Her ears began to burn, when she heard faint, but distinct moaning.

_Is this my imagination? Do I actually hear them making love?_ Silently, she tiptoed closer, until she was at the bent in the corridor that was just before the lord’s chamber. She could hear it clearly now. There was moaning and for a tiny moment, she froze, her mind a wild tumble. _No, that cannot be. They would never do that._ Her mind raced, and before she had reached a conscious decision, her feet had begun to carry her around the corner in a run. She was stopped by Podrick, who stood in front of the chamber, his sword half-drawn out of his scabbard in a hurry.

“What do you do here?” Podrick asked.

Alys felt her face going red. “I couldn’t sleep and I’m lost and then I heard something. Is somebody hurt?”

Alys felt this was as good an excuse as any, and she could hardly ask Podrick if the king and his hand were busy making love.

“Lady Sansa has a nightmare,” Podrick said looking troubled and uneasy.

_So, that’s what it’s called nowadays._

“Shouldn’t you do something about that?” Alys asked boldly.

Podrick looked mortified. “I can’t just into Lady Sansa’s chamber,” he exclaimed. “She’s in her shift!”

Alys went straight to the door. “Oh, but I can,” she said.

She expected Podrick to hold her back and immediately went for the doorlatch, before he could protest.  Podrick caught her elbow. She looked up at him and arched an eyebrow, ready to ask him, why she should not enter.

“Be careful,” he said. “Lady Brienne told me that she lashes about when she has nightmares and she could hurt you. She might not recognize you. I’ll fetch the king!”

Before Alys had mastered her surprise, he was off, and she had no option but to proceed as she had told. She opened the door carefully, and looked into the chamber. Alys was ashamed that she had jumped to conclusions and she approached Sansa’s bed with trepidation. Podrick had not exaggerated. The lady of Winterfell was moaning loudly and her arms lashed about. Now, that she stood so near, she could easily pick that Sansa’s moaning had nothing to do with lust. A fine sheen of perspiration was on her forehead. Her direwolf Alysanne got up at the feet of the bed, when Alys entered and stood alert, her tail down, but then she only sniffed shortly, gave a short whine and pushed Alys towards the bed.

Alys positioned herself beside the bed and gingerly took one of Sansa’s hand.

“Shhh,” she said, feeling incredibly clumsy and ill at place. “Everything is well, you are safe.” Her words had no apparent effect on the sleeping figure, if anything the moaning became louder. Alys felt goosebumps on her skin, that Lady Sansa was so deep in her dreams, that she could not be woken, and shuddered.

The door of the chamber, she had only partly opened, was thrust open and the king entered in a hurry. Alys could see that he was clothed, and wondered about that, when he shoved her aside, not rudely, but not very considerate either. He picked up Sansa’s flaying form and pressed her to his breast.

“Shh,” he said, just like Alys had done, but Sansa’s moving stopped and she sighed and nuzzled her nose into Jon’s neck.

Jon stroked her hair. “He is dead, Sansa, he is dead.”

_Who is ‘he’?_

Alys could just see Podrick in the doorframe. He stood alert and was carefully guiding his eyes towards the wall above Sansa’s head.

The sounds Sansa made changed and after a moment of disorientation, Alys realised that Lady Sansa was crying, her tears interrupted by long shuddering sobs. Alysanne came to her side and pressed her nose to Sansa’s body.

“He is dead, you killed him yourself,” Jon repeated, but Sansa shook her head and continued to cry. She tried to say something, but her voice was muffled by Jon’s neck and interrupted by her sobbing.

“I’m going to banish that darn singer,” Jon said. “He reminded you of your torture at the hands of that swine.”

Alys stood rooted to the ground, torn between her shame that she had so misunderstood the situation and a yearning for comfort that raised its head from the bottom of her soul.

_I wish I could cry into someone’s neck as well._

After a while, Sansa’s sobs came less frequent and she regained control of her ragged breathing. Podrick lightened a candle.

“I didn’t dream about him,” she said, when she had found her voice again. Her voice sounded muffled.

She separated herself from Jon’s arms, but took his hand into hers.

“I had a very disturbing dream. I dreamed about the Twins.”, she said.

“What did you dream?” Jon asked.

“I’m not sure. I was looking at it through a wolf’s eyes, or that was the feeling I got.” Her eyes searched Jon’s face in the shady light of the candle.

Jon nodded curtly.

“There was a huge pack of wolves, dead people, dead wolves, blood everywhere, just like the Hound told us. But there was a huge direwolf as well. It was a she-wolf, she was hurt and she was dying. It was all very shady. She was waiting for a human.”

Sansa drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t know what to think about this, Jon. Didn’t you dream anything?”

“I was awake,” Jon said. “I couldn’t sleep. Ghost was restless.”

“I think it was Nymeria, not our Nymeria, Arya’s Nymeria. I told you she was lost in the Riverlands,” Sansa said.

“You think, Nymeria killed the Freys?”, Jon asked.

Sansa just nodded and Alys could hear drawing in her breath.

“What about Arya? Did you see her? Did Nymeria know anything about her?”, Jon asked.

Sansa shook her head. Her big direwolf came closer and began to lick her hands.

Alys tried to breathe as shallow as possible. She did not want to remind Podrick or the king of her presence right now.

“Everything was so blurred. Nymeria could have waited for her, but I am not sure.” Jon reached out and stroked her cheek as if to dry tears, and Sansa reached down and patted the direwolf.

“Did you feel anything, Alysanne?”, she asked, but the direwolf gave only a very short yelp and stretched his nose, eager for more patting.

“Must have been only Ghost,” Jon mused.

“But why would we dream about that now?” Sansa asked.

Jon shook his head. “I have no idea”, he answered.

Sansa sighed heavily. “O Jon,” she said. “I must have dreamt that, because of what Alys Karstark told us today. It would be so wonderful to see Arya again, to finally have her here with us. That’s why I had that dream.”

Jon guided her hands to his mouth and kissed them. He kept her hands in his and held them to his breast.

“I know,” he said. “I think, your wish to see Arya must have been behind it. Still it is strange, that Ghost was restless.”

“The direwolves always feel like we feel. You probably had your mind on Arya as well.”

“Of course,” Jon admitted.

“There was something strange, just before I woke,” Sansa said.

“In the end, I saw Nymeria watching over Alys Karstarks’ lifeless body. She looked as if she was dead, but Nymeria protected her from other wolves. She must have been unconscious or something.”

It was only at that moment, that Jon suddenly noticed his environment again. He raised his eyes and looked directly into Alys’ eyes.

“We can ask her,” he said and pointed. Sansa turned fully, aghast.

“What are you doing in my chambers, Lady Alys?”

Alys could feel the heat rising to her cheeks that felt aflame.

“I couldn’t sleep and I lost my way in the castle. I heard you moaning in your sleep and Podrick asked me to help.” She shot a quick look at Podrick to check if he would dare to contradict her, but Podrick’s gaze was still intent on the wall. Apparently, his thought had not gone into the same direction as Alys’, but he probably had known, that Sansa was alone.

“It was a lucky coincident that Lady Alys was about,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave your door even for the short time it took to fetch the king, and I didn’t want to enter either.”

Sansa snorted. “Podrick, sometimes, you can put modesty aside. I appreciate your consideration, but I could have cut myself or something and I could have bled to death without you ever noticing.”

Podrick still was searching for flies on the wall. “I doubt you would be stupid enough to cut yourself, even if this dagger of yours is dangerous.”

“We best let Lady Brienne do the watch in the night for the next weeks, or so,” Sansa said. “If this new nightmare returns, she won’t hesitate.”

“That still leaves the question of Lady Alys’ memory of the Twins,” Jon said.

Alys shook her head in panic, just as Sansa separated her hands from Jon’s and laid one of them on Jon’s arm in reassuring and calming way. “She told us already, that she doesn’t remember anything, Jon. And it was just a dream. It probably means nothing.”

Alys could see, that Jon reined in his temper. He stood up. “We can get some sleep still.” He patted the direwolf. “Alysanne, you sleep in Sansa’s bed tonight”, he said and gave the big wolf a shove.

Alysanne was happy about that and nestled at Sansa’s feet.

“Stop ordering her about,” Sansa said chidingly, but she smiled, when the king pressed her into his arms once again and then stood up to leave.

Alys could have been mistaken because of the shifting light of the candle, but just before Sansa’s sleeves slipped back into place when she lowered her arms after embracing Jon, she thought she saw the fine white lines of scars on her upper arms.

_Is this why she has nightmares about ‘him’? Must have been that fell Bastard of the Dreadfort._

She didn’t even realize that in her head, the name of the Boltons was already erased like it had been in Alaric’s song. She left the chamber with King Jon, who quickly proceeded to his own chamber without looking back. Podrick resumed his stance at the door.

“Shall I show you the way, Lady Alys?”, the king asked and Alys had no choice but to be led all the way to her chamber, although she knew perfectly well, where it was.


	10. In the vaults of Castle Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gods call for help at Castle Black and Jon Snow, the King in the North and Samwell Tarly oblige. Samwell meets someone he thought dead and discovers a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Another chapter of my slow-burn fic. I hope this is something for Bran fans. If you like it, give me a short note. I know, with GoT being on again, many people don't even have time to read fanfiction. But I'm on holidays and have time to write....

_Castle Black has changed so much._ It looked nothing like the Castle Black of Sam’s memory, where he had joined the Night’s watch and had been so unhappy until Jon Snow had befriended him. _The King in the North now. Don’t forget that._ The castle was bustling with activity and Sam judged that there were about 500 men. Some of them sported banners of the Vale.

Sam was looking forward to meet Edd Tollet again, who was Lord Commander now, but the journey had not been a pleasure. Winter journeys were always hard, but when just a week after he had arrived at Winterfell the Gods had called upon the king in the North to come to Castle Black, Sam had been devastated to leave Gilly behind. Somehow the Gods had read his mind. _‘Don’t worry, you will return most likely, but you are needed’._ Sam had not found this particularly reassuring, but who was he to contradict the Gods.

So, they had left Winterfell and the cosy great Hall and set out to go for Castle Black. Jon’s reaction to the call of the Gods had been peculiar. He had rushed everyone to set out and yet when they had left Winterfell, Ghost and the two direwolves Nymeria and Summer at his heels, his horse had somehow dragged and Ghost had been running back and forth until he had finally settled at Jon’s side in the evening when they had set up their first camp. His tongue had been lolling from all the running.

The small and sturdy horses with their ‘bear paws’ had made better speed, when Sam had expected and apart from the sleds, most of the foot soldiers had funny boards under their shoes that helped them glide over the snow. ‘Snow planks’ the Northerners called them and Sam had been impressed by the idea. Podrick Payne, who was a very unpretentious captain of the household guard, told him that it had been the Starks themselves who had invented them one afternoon when the King and Lady Sansa had been playing with the twins.

Sam sighed and looked at Podrick’s back. He was speaking in a very low voice with Alys Karstark. _Again_. They always thought that nobody could make out what they were talking about, but by now almost everybody knew about what Lady Alys was pestering everybody, and Podrick in particular. She seemed to have an absurd interest in the exact nature of the relationship of King Jon and Lady Sansa. _Why can’t she just stop talking about those bloody rumours. I wish Alaric had never brought that up._ Sam remembered that Alys had been very upset about this rumour when they had all been on their trip to Winterfell, but the reason for that was beyond him. And her behaviour was strange as well, sometimes it seemed like she just wanted proof that there was nothing whatsoever to be believed in that rumour, at other times she seemed to be after proof that Jon and Sansa were indeed as the rumours claimed, lovers.

“Why hasn’t he married, then?” Alys asked in a hush voice, that somehow sounded desperate and angry at the same time. Sam sighed and urged his horse forward. Podrick was a nice chap, but he wouldn’t say anything more than point out, that neither the King nor Lady Sansa would ever do anything remotely dishonourable.

“It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it.” Sam interjected. Alys looked at him as if daring him to come up with something. A long time ago her angry look would have been enough to make Sam shut up, but he only had to remember the Maesters at the citadel and Lady Alys’ glaring glance slid right past him.

“If the King would marry into one of the Northern houses, the others might feel put down. This way he favours no house. He can’t marry one of the Free Folk. The Riverlands are a shamble, any alliance to be earned there is worth nothing and certainly not worth losing the alliance of the remaining Tully loyalists. He would lose that, if he would go back on his proclamation of Eddard and Rickon as his heirs. The same is true of the Vale. The knights of the Vale were brought into the fold by Lady Sansa, the cousin of Lord Sweetrobin. They would not stay if Lady Sansa’s children were robbed of their birthright.”

“I don’t think he would or should disinherit them,” Alys said, her voice sounding angy. “But why can’t he marry? He must have,” she hesitated and made a vague gesture with her hand.”…urges”.

“No family would give their daughter to the King if they have no chance to see their grandson as King in the North some day in the future.” Sam said. “To proclaim his nephews as heirs and then beget children on a wife would certainly produce a succession crisis in the next generation and it would alienate the Riverlands and the Vale.” He decided not to press the point about Jon’s ‘urges’.

“But Sansa should not demand that of him.” Alys answered.

“Lady Sansa,” Podrick said pointedly. “Lady Sansa loves her brother and would not demand anything. I have first-hand knowledge of how far her loyalty goes. I was there, when she took down Lord Baelish. But she could not prevent the Vale standing up for her and her sons’ birthright, if King Jon would marry.” He glared at Lady Alys.

“Nor would he ever do that!”, he added, pointedly. “He loves his nephews!”

“Lady Alys,” Sam tried to calm Alys down. “It makes sense really. Lady Catelyn always feared that Jon Snow would be a threat to her trueborn children. King Jon and Lady Sansa show a united front and anyone trying to put a wedge between them would be bound to fail. They just ensure that there isn’t even the slightest possibility to do so.”

The look that ran across Alys’ face was very hard to read. Sam did not know, if his words had reached her. Podrick looked at him thankfully, and Sam decided to add one more thing.

“I agree that is an unusual arrangement, but it makes sense, even in the history of the Starks it is not unheard of. There were four Stark sisters who acted as regent for a Lord Stark who was under age and none of them married, so that there would be no succession problem. I must admit that I don’t remember their names.” _Please, just stop will all these questions. You are making the Northerners very uneasy._ Lady Mormont who had judged Alys to be competent enough to fight even though she had lost against Brienne, had even stopped to talk to her altogether.

“As usual the names of the women are not remembered.” Alys said with a disgruntled face. “And although even if it makes sense politically, I still don’t understand why the King has no mistress.”

Sam made a point of letting Alys hear his exasperated sigh. “The son of a mistress would also be a threat, especially since the king is a bastard himself.”

He was struck by an idea. “Do you want to be the king’s mistress?”, he asked in a low voice, and had the satisfaction that Alys’ face acquired a very dark red colour, if of shame or anger, he could not have said. She vehemently shook her head, but his question shut her up, at least for now. Sam first thought, that his question somehow had struck home, but when he looked behind him, he saw that Alaric, the ever curious singer, had urged his horse at their side and he looked like he had listened in.

_But the damage has been done. Now, these rumours are floating about and I doubt the Northerners will ignore them all like Lyanna Mormont seems to do._

When they rode into the courtyard of Castle Black, Edd was already waiting for them.

“Sam the Slayer has come to gloat about his Maeser’s chain. It looks so heavy I’m surprised your neck is not sore,” Edd’s voice boomed. Sam dismounted and embraced him.

“I’m glad to see you alive and well, too,” he said.

“Alive… “, Edd said. “I suppose that’s true… At least I hope somebody would have informed me, if I had turned into a wight.”

The Lord Commander was embraced by the king as well. “Lady Sansa sends her regards.”, Jon said.

Edd nodded. “Tell her thank you, if you see her again.” His long face looked even more troubled than in Sam’s memory.

“Is it that bad?”, Jon asked.

Edd nodded. “Giant wights, a few White walkers, and he insists, that we have to clear the road to the weirwood tree north of Castle Black.

“He…” Jon said. “You mean, the Gods.”

Edd nodded again with a very guarded look on his face. “Yes, the Gods.”, he said.

“We will start first thing tomorrow morning, we have some fighters who haven’t seen wights yet.” Jon called for several people, Alys Karstark and Alaric among them.

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s watch is my second in command for this operation. Heed his words well,” Jon said. He eyed Alaric with a wary look, that Sam had seen quite often when the singer was about. “You wanted to make a song about the wights. Try to stay alive to sing it.”

“Did you give them the speech about how they have to hack them to pieces.” Edd asked.

“Of course, we trained every day after we broke camp. Still, I want them to talk to some of the seasoned black brothers.” Jon answered.

Even Sam had been included in the training sessions. His time in the Citadel had reduced his abhorrence of blood. But Jon insisted that everybody should train on a field that was put up especially, to avoid the ropes and sticks while fighting, each of them representing some arm or leg of a wight, that might still be moving with a semblance of living and intent that could mean the death of a soldier - and a new wight to join the army of the dead, if the battle did not go their way.

When Jon left them to speak with Ser Davos, Edd took them all inside, but when Sam tried to settle at the fire, Edd put his hand on his arm. He looked at him with eyes that seemed even sadder than a moment before. “Not you, Sam. I’m sorry there is no time for catching up with old friends. He told me to bring you to him.”

Sam was confused, but followed on Edd’s heels. In Winterfell the Gods had told him, that he was needed, and maybe he would now learn what he had to do.

Edd led him to deep down into the deepest vaults of Castle Black. Sam remembered them well from the time he had looked for answers on the White Walkers in the oldest books of Castle Black. _I could have stayed here. I learned a lot in the citadel but not the things I wanted to learn._

Sam was very surprised when they came across a chamber that could be almost called cosy. There were no books, but a fire in the corner and a small child that looked almost fat in many layers of furs. She played with little wooden knights that were elaborately carved. The child had a small braid and was about as old as his own Melassa and Sam was certain, she was a girl. When she heard them come, she turned and ran to Edd and embraced him. Edd stroked her hair. “Little Cat, how are you, is it not too boring down here?”

“No, I have my knights” the girl said. “And daddy said, this time we only have to stay a few days.”

“Here is a visitor for your father,” Edd said, “but I might be able to stop and play a little bit with you, if your father has no need of me.”

The little girl turned to her corner with the wooden knights again. “Daddy already promised that you’ll have some time. Bring this visitor to father.”

She looked at Sam and extended a small hand. “Hello, I am Catelyn.”

Sam shook her hand and smiled at her like he would have at his own daughter. “I am Samwell,” he said.

Edd went to the door to the next room that stood ajar and knocked. A deep voice answered. “Bring him in.” Sam shuddered involuntarily. The last time he had heard that voice, it had been at the weirwood tree in Winterfell. There it had boomed and been faint at the same time, as if someone spoke in a grand room with an echo that was only a memory and not the living voice.

He almost dreaded to see the man behind his voice. _The Gods?_. _Edd said ‘he’_. _What does this all mean?_

When he entered the chamber, he recognized Brandon Stark immediately. The last trueborn son of Eddard Stark was sitting in a chair, furs on his knees and a bunch of books on the table before him as well as a game of cyvasse. His face had grown long since Sam last saw him, the child’s face had become the face of a grown man with too much worries.

Sam stood rooted. “You,” he said. “You are the voice in the weirwood tree. You are the Gods.”

Bran looked at him with green eyes that held too much wisdom for a man of his age. “I’m not ‘the Gods’. I never said. I am. It’s just…” he paused. “ … convenient to let people believe that my voice is the voice of the Gods. They tend to do what I say, if they believe I am the Gods.”

Sam felt like the breath had been knocked out of his lungs.

“How is Jon?”, Bran asked.

“He looks well enough, a bit troubled, but that’s nothing new.” Edd answered. “He brought Alys Karstark as you said he would.”

“Tell the men to be extra careful about keeping my presence here a secret, then.”.

“I already did, you’ve already instructed me to do that,” Edd looked troubled. “You don’t sleep enough, if you forget that.”

“Did he bring the singer?,” Bran asked.

“Which one is that?,” Edd wanted to know.

“Alaric, the man with the slender hands.” Sam interjected, having found his breath again.

Bran nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. Is he here?”

Sam nodded.

Bran breathed a deep sigh. “Good, even if it is somewhat dangerous. That man is too curious for his own good. Keep him well preoccupied, Edd, will you?”

“Of course, Lord Stark,“ Edd answered. “Where is Lady Meera?”

“Fetching some books.”, Bran said.

“This could be dangerous,” Edd said. “Someone might spot her.”

Bran shook his head. “Apart from our dear Sam here, nobody is going to look for books. Just watch out for the singer. Tell him tales about the Night’s watch struggle against the Walkers. He’ll like that.”

He waved his hands invitingly to the seat next to him.

“Samwell Tarly, sit down, there is much we have to discuss, and time is running short. I would have liked to have you here sooner, but I could not call you before you came North.”


	11. The use of books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets instructions by Bran and gets some glimpses on possible futures, while Meera is frustrated with her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had really a lot of work, but somehow I managed to finish the next chapter. I liked to play with the idea of what seeing possible futures might mean for Bran and how he can use that in the wars to come!

Meera handled the old books with as much care as she could. Her hands were cold from hours in the vaults and her grip on the books was somewhat tenuous. She pressed them to her breast and hoped that she had found the right books. Bran had not been very helpful, her love usually wasn’t when it came to his visions of the future. It was frustrating. _‘Just pick random books, not about the White Walkers, just about anything that piques your own interest. The most important thing is that we get Sam to talk.’_

Meera had answered sarcastically to that. _‘Do you have any idea how many books are down there? You can’t just give me a hint?’_ Bran had raised his hand frustrated. _‘If I would know what is so important about talking with Sam, he wouldn’t have to come here, would he? I’ve explained you how difficult visions of the future are!’_  Meera had been angry. _‘Yes, thanks Bran. I’ve been at the receiving end of your explanations more times than I would care to count.’_ And she had stomped away, knowing full well, that she would regret that later. She hated if they fought and she always went away. _Maybe it’s not entirely fair. But on the other hand, he always knows when I will come back._

Meera had to smile when she thought about that one fight, where she had come back and said, she was sorry and Bran had simply answered that he knew. That had her riled up all again and they had fought again. Bran never had made that mistake again.

Her anger was never long-lived and she knew that hers and Bran’s love worked surprisingly well under the circumstances. She never asked Bran how long their time would be. Only when Cat had been born, she had given into temptation and had asked her prince about the future for her girl. _‘If we survive the long night, she’ll live and thrive.’_ She held on to that sentence when she was frightened. _She’ll live and thrive._ They just had to survive the Long Night. That shouldn’t be too difficult with a husband who could foresee the future. _Even though he can’t even tell me what books to fetch!_

In her frustration, she had even picked some books on the customs of the summer isles, about weapon mastery in Dorne and one about Valyrian eating habits. She was tempted to bring the books back again, but Bran had told her to take random books, and Meera was looking forward to sitting in a warmer room, even if it was only warmer, not warm.

When she entered, Bran and Sam were already deep in conversation, but it did not seem as if Bran had succeeded in making Sam talk. To Meera it seemed like Bran was answering questions.

“It is not that simple,” he said, his usual sentence, when somebody asked him about his ability to foresee the future. “I can see tiny bits of what might come and I can nudge people in the direction I want them to take. Some things are very clear, they will happen one way or the other, some are possibilities, some are highly unlikely.” Bran sighed.

“And the future shifts. If we take one path another one is closed, and I must try to keep everyone on the right track. And this is so frustrating when I can’t even reach some of the most important pieces.” Bran idly took one of the figures on the cyvasse board and twirled it in his fingers. It was a dragon.

Meera heaved the books on the table and puffed. “Here you are,” she said.

Sam was stealthily looking at the books, with an expression on his face that to Meera looked like a child that had spotted honey.

Sam made an effort to not look at the titles too obviously. He smiled and made a slight bow, but did not get up. “Lady Meera,” he said. “Nice to meet you again. If I tell Gilly I met you alive and well, she will be happy.”

Meera shook hands with Sam, smiling herself, and sat beside him.

“Why can’t you tell Jon you’re alive? Lady Sansa and Jon even have a direwolf for you, in case you come back. They would be so happy to see you.” the Maester picked up where the conversation had apparently stopped.

“I know,” Bran answered. “But the time is not right. You know, it’s all complicated. I can’t tell you, or you would suddenly know things, you can’t know, not yet, anyway. But be patient. Soon, I’ll come to Winterfell, at least if Jon manages to cut a path to the weirwood tree north of Castle Black again and to repel the White Walkers to buy some time for me.”

Meera was alarmed. “You told King Jon to come here and fight, just so that you can visit the weirwood north of the wall? You said, that this is getting dangerous.”

Bran shrugged. “We have to risk it.”

“Why can’t you just come to Winterfell and use the weirwood tree there?”, Sam asked.

“The moment I get to the weirwood tree at Winterfell, something dire will happen. Something that will happen anyway, but I would prefer to delay it a little bit longer and to let it happen at my own conditions.” Bran explained.

Sam looked doubtful. Meera snorted. “Vague and ominous as always.” She said.

When Bran shot her an exasperated look, she let the corners of her mouth twitch.

“I’m only disgruntled because I feel like an ass, hauling all those books,” she said. Suddenly her anger was gone and she looked at Bran’s curls with the sudden urge to stroke his hair. _He juggles the world, I shouldn’t mind it so much, that he can’t explain everything._

“You should get Cat to carry books. My girl loves carrying books to me.” Sam said.

“And these books are always the ones you need?” Meera asked incredulously.

Sam shook his head. “Alas, Melassa loves book with pictures.”

He reached out and pulled the stack of books to his side of the table. He randomly picked up topmost book on the stack and leafed through the pages. “No pictures in there,” he mumbled, already deeply immersed in the pages. _It’s like he just can’t resist a book for long._

Bran didn’t say anything, but Meera could see, that there was a glint in his eye and his body tensed up. He bent over.

“What is it about?”, he asked.

“Forging weapons…..” Sam answered distractedly. “No pictures but there seem to be meticulous descriptions…. I wonder if there is anything in there, that would help us, to embed dragonglass in armour.”

Then he sighed. “I really don’t understand anything of this.” He shut the book and laid it to the other side.

Bran laid his hand on Sam’s arm. “Take it with you, you can read it at Winterfell, or you can find someone who will make use of it.”

Sam looked sceptical, but nodded.

“So, what is it you wanted to tell me?” he asked. But Meera could see that his eyes were again on the stack of books. She smiled inwardly.

“What do you think of Alys Karstark?” asked Bran. Sam suddenly looked wary and guarded and Meera could see that a blush crept in his cheeks.

“She’s difficult,” Sam answered and Meera was taken aback. Bran had talked about Alys Karstark and he even had told Meera that deep down Alys was Arya. It had been one of the rare moments when he had shared some of the things that weighed on his mind.

“Why is she difficult?” Meera asked, puzzled. “I would think that she is very loyal to the Starks.”

Sam’s face had grown a deep purple. “She seems to be, but there is some strange secret about her. She escaped the Revenge of the Old Gods at the Twins and the slaughter of the Freys and nobody including herself knows how. And while I think she is loyal to the Starks and a good fighter, she also asks questions that make people uneasy. There is some unrest, wherever she goes.”

Meera could see that Sam held something back.

“She has lost herself,” Bran sighed. “She is a risk, but she might also be the key to our survival.” He took up the dragon from the Cyvasse game and twirled it in his fingers. Of late, Meera had seen him doing that quite often. _Why is it always the dragon he picks, does this have something to do with that Dragon queen in the South?_

“What do you mean?”, Sam asked.

“She is standing on the edge of a knife,” Bran explained. “It hurts and her heart bleeds, and she wants to stop balancing. If she falls on the wrong side though, she’ll kill Jon or Sansa or both. If she falls on the right side, she might save us all.”

“What? She’ll kill Jon and Sansa?” Meera called out while Sam just looked very disturbed. His round eyes over his chubby cheeks were wide open. _Is he telling me that there is a risk his sister Arya kills his other siblings?_

“Wouldn’t it be better, if we send her away, then? Is there no other way to save us all?” Sam asked troubled.

Bran shrugged. “There are several ways to save us all, none of them is sure. But Alys will have a better chance than some others. Our chances would have been even better, if she had just listened to my call.”

Meera snorted. “Thanks for cheering us, Brandon Stark.”

“What can I do then?” Sam asked.

“Keep her balancing on the knife’s edge,” Bran told him.

Meera could tell that Sam was lost. _As I am. He’s talking riddles._ She laid her hand on Bran’s hand.  “My love, you have to be more precise. Poor Sam doesn’t know what to do.”

Sam shot her a grateful glance. Meera could see, that Bran was thinking hard on what he could tell. Obviously, he thought it dangerous to disclose Alys’ real identity.

“Just give Sam an example, a general outline, you don’t have to go into detail.” she nudged him.

“You could start by ensuring that Alys does not catch Jon and Sansa alone.” Bran said.

Sam stared open mouthed. “What do you mean by catching them alone?” His voice came out in a squeak. “Isn’t it enough that Alys spreads this vile rumours?”

Meera had not thought that Sam’s eyes could open even further. Where his cheeks had been red before, he was now pale and he looked as if he had suddenly sickened.

Bran shook his head, while Meera heard herself asking “What vile rumours?”

It was Bran who answered. “Apparently there are rumours in the South, that Jon and Sansa are lovers.” His voice was calm.

Meera let out a puff and looked at Bran worriedly. “Are you telling me, that there are rumours that your siblings are lovers?” _Why hasn’t he told me about that?_

Bran entwined his fingers and Meera recognised it as the gesture he used, when he had come to terms with an inevitable outcome of the future. She slumped in her chair.

“Just rumours,” Sam said. “It is no wonder, that the Lannister queen spreads this kind of rumour with herself being guilty of incest with her brother. It’s just slander.” He made an effort to calm himself.

“I can try my best that Lady Alys has no chance of killing them.” he added. The blood had returned to his cheeks and there were spots of red on his cheeks. “I’m sure you meant that I should ensure that Lady Alys does not come near them. I’m not sure, if I could hinder Lady Alys to do anything, though. She is a determined woman and I’m not a warrior. And Jon can protect himself.” Meera could see that he felt uncomfortable.

Bran again laid his hand on Sam’s arm and somehow his voice became deeper. “If Alys does not find herself there is nothing you can do. But you can prevent Jon and Sansa to do something rash.”

“Something rash?” Meera asked. “Are you telling us, that Sam has to prevent…”, she stopped and lowered her voice to a whisper…. “has to prevent them to be alone, so that they can’t…” she stopped again and felt her own cheeks getting heated. _Bran wants Sam to prevent Jon and Sansa to become lovers, so Arya does not kill them?_ She felt her head reeling.

“Are you telling me that that part of the rumours is true?” Sam stuttered. “They are tempted to …” Like Meera, Sam did not manage to finish the sentence.

Bran gave a short laugh. “Tempted…” he said in his deep voice, that Meera associated with the weirwood.

He took a deep breath, before he continued. “This is one of the things that will happen, no matter what we do. But it is essential that Jon and Sansa hold on to their honour, just a little bit longer.”

Meera didn’t know what to say to that. _Why hasn’t he told me about that?_ She had the suspicion that she would not like the answer. While the silence dragged on she could almost hear her Bran tell her _‘If I would have told you, you would not have been surprised. I needed you surprised.’_ _Just get Sam talking, indeed, what a pile of horseshit._ She was almost ready to hit him with one of the books on the table.

It was Sam who broke the silence. “But what can I do?” he wailed.

Meera had an idea. “The children,” she said. “Just ensure, that the children pester them, day and night. You’re a maester. Make them ask questions, tell them stories that will keep them up at night, wondering and restless. Nothing prevents hours of lovemaking as good as a child that comes crawling into her mother’s bed.”

She smiled at Bran, a smile she knew well that reached not her eyes. _Guess where little Cat will sleep tonight, bloody three-eyed raven._

She leafed through some of the books. “Here,” she said “This one is on the Summer Isles, many pictures in them, many questions to ask. There are pictures of how they paint their skin.” She shoved the book to Sam, and picked up the one about Valyrian eating habits.

“This one has many pictures of plants and animals, some of them don’t exist any longer.” When she had loaded all the books on poor Sam’s arm she turned to Bran full of anger and an all too familiar hurt. It was only when she saw the corners of Bran’s mouth curve upward in a smug smile that she realised, that somehow Sam had gotten the books he needed and that the man she loved had moved her again on his board of cyvasse.


	12. Blood at the weirwood tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northerners cut a path to the weirwood tree near Castle Black. Olyvar Frey learns quite a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been a bitch lately, and this chapter was difficult. I have the feeling that I'm not the best at writing fighting scenes.  
> I know, it sometimes takes me long to update. But I have the whole story plotted and I will finish it. Be patient with me!  
> And if you like it, give me a hint, that you like it. Comments keep me going!

Olyvar had not slept well. He would never have admitted it, but he was frightened about the prospect of fighting the Undead. The brothers of the Nightwatch had given them ample instruction on what would expect them next morning, but Olyvar suspected it would be very different from any battle he had seen. Briefly, his thoughts wandered to the Whispering Wood and the Young Wolf. That had been the first time he had seen fighting, even if only from afar. It was still dark, when he decided that he could as well get up.

He had been told to report to Podrick, the captain of the Stark guard, first thing in the morning and he found him near the king’s quarters. Podrick was in a bad mood. When Olyvar arrived, he was scolding a boy from the Nightwatch. His face was flushed, and he frowned.

“No, you’ve done quite enough,” Podrick told the boy. “I can’t believe you took this and almost threw it away. That would have been a disaster.”

He reached out with his right hand as if to pull the boy’s ear, but Olyvar saw that Podrick although seriously angry, did not grab for the boy when he ducked under his arms.

Podrick shooed the boy, “Get out of my eyes.” And turned and came face to face with Olyvar.

For a moment Olyvar thought that the captain’s scowl deepened, and resigned himself to get another one of the deeply mistrusting looks he had grown accustomed to. For all that the Gods had apparently spoken in his favour, most of the Northmen were very suspicious about him.

Podrick’s forehead relaxed a tiny bit. “Ah, Olyvar,”, he said. “You are quite early.” _At least, he doesn’t call me ‘the Frey’._

He eyed Olyvar and seemed to check how well he was prepared. “Do you have your dragonglass weapons ready?”, he asked. “Oil? Tinder?”

Olyvar nodded and gestured to the dagger that was attached to his armour in a scabbard that had been stitched to the front. They had practiced drawing the dagger yesterday. It was a practical device: there was a strap, that gave way, if one yanked at the dagger with enough force, and the pouch did not hinder free movement. It was only meant to be drawn if confronted with a White Walker. The brothers had been insistent that it was no use against any of the Wights. Apparently Lady Sansa had invented the pouch, and the brothers called it “Lady’s pouch” which Olyvar thought was a bit rude. Two bags of oil were at his side. They had practiced throwing the bags. Sometimes it would be necessary to burn corpses immediately Olyvar had been told.

“I still have an errant for the king.” Podrick eyed him, and then made a gesture to follow him. In his left hand he held something that looked like a piece of cloth.

Podrick went to the guarded door of the king. The guard eyed Olyvar, but did not dare to say anything in the presence of Podrick.  

Podrick waved the cloth, “Thank the Gods I found it.”  The guard looked relieved, and Olyvar wondered what it was all about. Podrick knocked briefly and entered, Olyvar followed, unsure if he would be welcome.

King Jon stood in the middle of the chamber and was about to buckle his sword belt. “Did you find it?” he asked, as Podrick entered. Podrick gave a short bow, his left hand stretched out with the cloth.

“That stupid boy who does the laundry, wanted to wash it!,” he exclaimed, outrage in his voice. _That piece of cloth looks rather grey. It could probably use a wash._

“And on the very morning, we set out for a fight.” Podrick sounded as if the boy had somehow managed to mislay the king’s sword.

King Jon took the cloth and unfolded it with care. Olyvar could see that it had a direwolf stitched on it, but although it looked like it had been stitched with great skill, it was also unfinished.

King Jon refolded the cloth meticulously, so that the direwolf came to be on the top and then he put the cloth in his tunic. It was only then, that he noticed Olyvar and smiled somewhat self-consciously.

“My lucky charm,” he explained. Olyvar was astonished. King Jon had not struck him as superstitious. And he did not think that someone who talked with the Gods on a regular basis would need a lucky charm.

“Lady Sansa herself made it and threaded prayers of protection into the cloth, so that the King in the North will not be hurt.” Podrick elaborated. 

Olyvar gave a bow himself. “And may it bring luck to you today as well.” He wished he had something like that. He was armed well and yet felt suddenly exposed, as if the fact that he had no lucky charm would make him a target for the enemy they were to face.

The King’s cheeks seemed oddly flushed as if he felt uncomfortable and Olyvar briefly wondered about it, but shoved the thought aside. He felt as if he had witnessed some sacred secret.

“Imagine, if I had not found it. I beg your forgiveness, your grace,” Podrick said. “Next time I’ll take care of your clothes myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Podrick” King Jon said. “You can’t look after everything. It was my fault, I should not have left it at my bedside.”

“What can I do for you, Olyvar,” the King wanted to know. Olyvar silently gave thanks, that at least the King did not make a point of eying him with suspicion.

He bowed “Your Grace, I was told to report to Captain Podrick.”

“I see,”, the King said. “Since you haven’t been in action against the Undead before, it is best if you stay close to someone with more experience. You could hardly do better than stay close to Podrick.”

He turned to his captain. “Podrick, make sure Olyvar stays safe. Lady Lyanna will ride at his other side.”

“And alert the Lord Commander. Anyone who wants should be ready for departure to the weirwood tree, once we cleared the path. I doubt that the path can be held more than a few days, even with the protection we worked out.”

Podrick nodded. “At once, your Grace.”

When they later left the wall behind them, Olyvar indeed rode between Lady Lyanna and Podrick. On Podrick’s other side rode Alys Karstark whose piercing gaze made Olyvar as uncomfortable as always. He really would have preferred to be far away from her. He would have liked to know what she knew of the Twins and of the ‘Revenge of the Old Gods’, but everybody seemed to have accepted, that Alys somehow did not remember. It also troubled Olyvar that he had had no idea, that Alys had been a prisoner at the Twins. _My father had to many secrets, as well as some of my brothers._

He wondered, how Roslin had died. He had no hope, that she had survived somehow, and she had been willing to trade her life for Edmure’s in any case. When Olyvar had left the twins, he had known that Roslin at the very least counted on getting severely punished once someone found out, it was her in the cell, and not Edmure.

Olyvar’s thought went out to Hoster at Winterfell. He missed his nephew, but he was in good hands now, that was all that counted, and it would be up to Olyvar, to ensure that Winterfell would stay safe.

While they rode on their ponies with the ‘bear paws’ the men who had no steeds, travelled with the strange ‘snow planks’ under their feet. The column fanned out and the men deposited great stakes of wood at regular intervals and spread black powder on the ground, Olyvar knew to be grinded down dragonglass.

“When we reach the Weirwood tree, we’ll aim to make a tight circle of fires around the tree. And we’ll light the fires all the way to Castle Black. If they keep the fires running, that should be enough to make the weirwood accessible.” Podrick explained.

After this brief explication, it fell eerily silent and Olyvar could feel the freezing cold, almost as if it was reaching for him with invisible gossamer threads. The sounds of the ponies sounded strangely muffled in Olyvar’s ears. The sun was up, but it gave no warmth. Olyvar could see the small clouds that came from the nostrils of the steeds and even though all their faces were covered with woollen masks, the breath of the men was also visible. Olyvar’s blood was pounding in his ears. Despite them being so many, a feeling of dread clung to him until felt suffocated.

He could see that Podrick tightly held to the reins of his steed, and that Lyanna let her eyes wander, studying the white soft glittering snow. When Olyvar looked around he caught Alys staring at the head of the column, where the king rode. She was so intent on watching, that for once she was not glaring at Olyvar. Alys had been amiable if somewhat withdrawn on their journey to Winterfell. _She didn’t know who you were then._ Olyvar didn’t exactly know why, but against Alys’ glares the mistrusting gazes of everyone else at Winterfell paled. _What did I expect? The Gods commanded to spare me, they did not tell them to be nice._

“We are close,” Podrick announced. Olyvar was riding beside him and yet Podrick’s voice sounded as if he was far away, as if he had shouted and something had swallowed the sound of his voice. Olyvar shuddered. The sun whose light had been a solace to him, now looked strange, as if he was a relentless eye of a giant looking down on the little ants that crawled in his snow.

Just when Olyvar could make out a large weirwood tree, the king raised in his stirrups and shouted, “Stay alert!” His voice was somehow not swallowed by the silence around them, but was loud and clear. “Fan out!”

The men spread out further and Podrick signalled the men with the wooden stacks towards the weirwood tree. Olyvar could hear his own ragged breath. King Jon and several others had dismounted and strode alongside the men.

Podrick dismounted as well and gestured to Lyanna, Alys and Olyvar to do the same.

“The ponies won’t be of any use in the fight, draw your swords” he called, his voice again sounding as if it was hindered by more than just his woollen mask. Other men took the horses and led them away.

The men with the wooden stacks were protected by the armed men and circled the weirwood tree, placing the wood in a short distance from the tree.

The hair in Olyvar’s neck raised when their enemy came upon them amidst whirling snow.

“Gods,” he wanted to shout, but his voice stuck in his throat as if someone had pushed a hand into his mouth. “They must be thousands.” He felt as if he was rooted to the ground and he couldn’t help but stare.

The army of the Undead had raised from the snow, their silhouettes almost looked like normal men. Occasionally Olyvar could see a uniform of a black brother, and even garbs of the noble houses of the North, but mostly the Undead had been wildlings. Olyvar looked at their strangely blue eyes and shuddered at their decaying bodies. He felt himself freeze with fear.

He only came to himself, when he heard a sword sing beside him. It had been Podrick’s sword and he shouted at him, his voice still sounding as if he shouted from a distance. Olyvar was startled that the Wights were all around him, and that Podrick’s sword had cut one of them in half. With a scream that sounded strange in his ears, Olyvar realised that the arms of that thing still clung to him.

Finally, he drew his own sword and helped Podrick to cut the thing to pieces, just like they had trained to do on their way to Castle Black. All around him he could hear the noises of the sudden battle and occasionally he heard a sudden whoosh, when a corpse of their fallen was lit. He realised that he could not see that well, and that the sun had disappeared behind clouds and that there was heavy snowfall. _How could this happen so fast._ He felt blind and deaf and lost himself in the hacking of the undead corpses of the Wights. He tried to make good his error and held himself by Podrick’s side.

He fought what felt like hours, although desperation slowly sunk in. _Think of Hoster. Think of saving him. Don’t let Roslin’s sacrifice be all in vain._ He thought of the last terrible weeks at the Twins, when his other full sibling Perwyn had died and it had felt as if Roslin and he were the only sane people in a world descending in madness. _How futile all the squabbling for the Twins was. They are ashes now…._

He wondered whether he would see Roslin again, and Perwyn, if he died now. Would King Robb welcome him. Did people in the afterlife know? Would he know that Olyvar had not been into the plan of the Red Wedding? Would he forgive him? Olyvar’s sad thoughts were distracting him and he let his sword sink.

“They have come”, he heard someone’s voice in his back. He turned and saw Lady Lyanna. Her eyes were wide open. Olyvar had not thought that she could look afraid.

“Don’t think of death, think of life and laughter.” she whispered, but her gaze did not give him the feeling that she took her own advice.

Olyvar turned again and dread filled him. The figures that approached now, were long and slender with white hair and their eyes were even more piercing than the eyes of the Wights. Olyvar almost dropped his sword, but got a grip again, when he suddenly heard King Jon’s voice booming. It was strangely loud over the muffled sound of fighting.

“Stand and hold, close the lines” the King shouted. He seemed to be very near. For a moment the air seemed clear and Olyvar thought that the snowfall lessened. He remembered the dragonglass dagger and drew it out of the pouch at his breast. It was so cold that his teeth began to shatter despite the wool mask. His lashes frosted together and Olyvar tried to blink more often to clear his sight.

Lyanna was at his side as was Podrick, but Alys ran towards the sinewy figures with an inarticulate scream of hate, her dragonglass dagger already in her hand. Olyvar cursed and followed her lead. _Didn’t the king just order us to close the line. Stupid girl._

The next minutes were a nightmare, Alys had rushed one of the White Walkers and Olyvar could see that his form simply shattered when Alys struck with her dagger. But afterwards her dagger vanished in puff of white smoke and the Walkers closed in on her.

Olyvar ran, his heart drumming in his ears, dagger on the ready. One figure turned and Olyvar raised his dagger and struck home, just like Alys had done. _At least I can take one with me._

He skidded to a halt amidst the remnants of the Walkers and stood frozen when they approached. His eyes searched Alys. He would die looking on a living person, even if this girl hated him. What he could see of Alys’ face was pale but determined. She held her sword that would be useless before her slender figure. Olyvar admired her courage. He had managed to drop his sword in his sudden run.

_Now, I’ll never see that tourney,_ he thought, his mind wandering back to his vision at the weirwood tree. _It was only a possible future anyway. It might be good, if the Frey name dies with me._

The Walker that had extended his long fingers to reach for Olyvar suddenly shattered. Behind him Olyvar saw the king, his sword in hand. The other Walkers seemed perplex. They sniffed the air, and King Jon came for them, one after the other, like a strange dance, he stepped around them, and left a trail of destruction.

The snowfall stopped all of a sudden, when the king had defeated the last White Walker. It was as if a veil had been lifted and Olyvar could see again. The sounds around him became clearer again and the air suddenly smelled fresh.

King Jon sheaved his sword. His face was serious. “Lady Alys,” he said in a stern voice.

Alys came, in her eyes was the same awe that Olyvar felt.

“You killed them all,” she said.

The King shrugged. “You put yourself in danger, and disobeyed my order. Never do that again.”

He turned to Olyvar. “I appreciate that you wanted to help Alys. But I presume you were told about the fact that the daggers can only be used once.” Olyvar nodded.

“You are wounded,” the King remarked. Olyvar looked at his left arm and was surprised to see that he indeed was bleeding.

“And I tell this to you, just as I told Alys. Never disobey again. You should have stayed at Podrick’s side.”

They went back to the lines of the other soldiers and Olyvar fell in line beside Podrick. Podrick looked guilty.

“I beg your pardon, your grace.”, he said. “I should have stopped her.”

The King waved impatiently. “You are not to blame, Podrick,” he answered.

“Nor you Lady Lyanna.” he added, although Lyanna hadn’t made excuses. She lowered her eyes in acknowledgement nevertheless, clutching her left arm.

Olyvar saw that all around the weirwood tree the fires went up in a tight circle around the tree. The other woodpiles were lit as well. Olyvar admired how smoothly the path was secured with fire and dragonglass.

“I think we succeeded, but Commander Tollet best hurry with his business.” King Jon sighed.

“Give word to the Lord Commander. Everyone who needs to go to the tree should go now. Then make a count of our losses, and estimate how many might have been turned.”

He gestured for Olyvar and Lyanna. “Let your wounds be dressed.”

Olyvar still felt stunned. “You were not wounded,” he remarked.

“He never is,” Lady Lyanna said. “The Old Gods protect him.”

Olyvar could believe it, he would never forget King Jon’s strange dance with the Walkers.

On their way back, Lyanna asked him what he thought about the fight, and Olyvar was glad to talk to someone. She explained to him, that the muffled voices, the thoughts about death and grief, and the snowfall were a common occurrence when they met the Walkers.

“Maybe you should warn new recruits about that as well,” Olyvar remarked. “I had thought I had gone blind and deaf.”

Lady Lyanna tapped her lip thoughtfully, but didn’t answer.

“Does he always fight like that?” Olyvar asked.

Lyanna looked at him as if the thought that there was something exceptional about the King’s fighting had not yet occurred to her.

She shrugged. “He is of the North and the Old Gods favour him. Somehow the White Walkers seem disoriented around him.”

Olyvar’s curiosity was piqued, but he dared not question further, when Lyanna did not elaborate.

On their way they met men from Castle Black. Lord Commander Tollet had already packed some of the old and wounded on sleds, so that they could be first at the weirwood tree. Maester Samwell accompanied them.

King Jon came galloping after them, and stopped shortly to greet the Commander. Olyvar noticed that one man on the sled did not look up, but huddled deeper into his blankets, when the king rode by. Maester Samwell let his pony trod back for a moment, seemingly to speak with the king. Olyvar wondered why he took care to ride into King Jon’s line of vision.

Olyvar could only understand a few words. “…just three days should be enough….” From Commander Tollet, “… hope it was worth it….” That was the King.

King Jon turned to Maester Samwell. “Don’t dawdle, Sam, we leave for Winterfell in the morning.”

Samwell nodded. Olyvar found it strange, that his gaze was locked firmly on the king. When King Jon spurred his steed forward, Sam turned to look at the sled. Olyvar saw that the huddled man looked up and his eyes met Olyvar’s. He did not look sick or wounded to Olyvar at all, he felt as if this gaze somehow pierced his soul, not exactly unpleasant, but disconcerting.

It was only after they had passed the gate and when his wound had been dressed that Olyvar remembered where had seen such blue eyes before. Why would a wounded man of the Night watch have the same eyes as his nephew Hoster?


	13. Message from the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just a normal day back at Winterfell.... Jon receives news from the South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry, it takes me so long to update. But the next chapter is almost ready as well. I was up to my neck in work.... This chapter is a bit of a set- up. I hope you like it nevertheless.

“Uncle Jon! Uncle Jon!”

Jon was just about to tie his shoes when his nephews barged in.

“I am right here,” he said. ”There’s no need to imitate trumpets that near to my poor ears.”

Even though he loved his nephews, ever since they had returned from the wall, his nephews and their new friends, Sam and Melassa and Hoster, were boisterous and loud and they were constantly at his heels. Although Sam and Hoster were older, it was still Eddard and Rickon who determined what they did most of the time, and somehow that included coming to Jon with all their questions. Sansa had told Jon that it was normal for their age to be curious, but Jon hardly knew how they came up with that many questions. Sansa had only laughed when he told her, that he felt their two maesters were entirely useless, since the children seemed to have more questions and ideas not less after talking to Sam or Maester Wolkan.

Eddard and Rickon had jumped on his bed with an audible thud. The other children were standing in the door, shyer than his nephews. Melassa was the bravest, she had entered the room fully, in her hand a little something that looked like that stuffed rabbit she carried around, little Sam was close behind her, while Jon saw only a glimpse of Hoster’s curls, when he looked through the slit at the door’s angle.

_My guards are useless. Who is it today? Podrick?  Should I tell them not to let the children in?_

“I have a question,” Eddard said.

Jon rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. “I’m not telling you again why the sky is blue.”

“Maester Samwell said, that we should learn about everything that is to be done in a castle. We decided that today we should learn about clothes.”

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to explain about clothes,” Jon said. “You should better ask your mother about that,” Jon answered.

“Mother and Gilly are preparing something vile in a big kettle.” Eddard said, crumpling his face. “It stinks.”

Jon was curious. “That early in the morning? what do they do?”

“Some medicine. They didn’t tell us.” Eddard answered. He rubbed his head above his ears. “It can’t be nice, it smells very sour.”

“So, we decided to ask you about clothes.” Rickon added.

Jon sighed. “First get off my bed”. He shook his covers hard, so that Eddard and Rickon were forced to climb down from his bed. Ghost who had been on his bed as well, jumped off. Eddard and Rickon tumbled and laughed. Jon saw that Melassa had edged a little closer and he could now see Hoster’s face when he peeked around the corner.

“My mom says, washing clothes is very important, so that people won’t get sick.” Melassa said with a very serious expression that was somewhat ruined by her sucking on her rabbit’s ear immediately after talking.

“So, what is it now, clothes or washing clothes.” He barely managed to snatch Longclaw before Eddard touched it. He shot his nephew an angry look.

“Don’t touch that without permission,” he said. His nephew gave him a shy and guilty smile, rubbing his neck and the hair on the back of his head.

“I mean that, Eddard,” Jon insisted. For a brief moment, he imagined Eddard drawing the blade and cutting himself at the edge of the blade. He shook his head to get rid of the image of blood.

“Blades are dangerous, you can handle them, then you’re old enough,” He added.

“What are you doing here?”, he heard a voice from the corridor. “Hoster, I told you to leave his grace alone.”

Jon could see Hoster wincing, when he heard his uncle’s voice.

“It’s all right,” he called. “He came with my nephews.”

Olyvar entered with a tray, his face a bit flustered. “I am sorry, your Grace. I should not have left my post, but Ser Podrick told me to ensure that you get breakfast before training. The children must have slipped by.” He glared at the children, but apart from Hoster they were unfazed.

“We have loads of questions”, Rickon said.

“That’s no reason not to let his grace have some food in peace,” Olyvar said sternly.

He set the tray on the table and a waft of fresh bread smell reached Jon’s nose. He was hungry.

“I don’t mind, “ Jon said, sitting down. He smiled at Hoster and patted on the seat beside him.

The boy who looked so much like his lost brother Rickon that Jon was always surprised that he was only about half as loud and boisterous gave a short bow, before he took Jon’s invitation. That had Olyvar nodding in approval.

“Your grace,” Hoster said. “Is it true, that my uncle fought bravely at the wall?”

Jon nodded. “Your uncle Olyvar acquitted himself well.” Jon could see that Olyvar squirmed because of this praise. _No need to tell his nephew, that he went after Alys and broke the line._ Somehow Hoster’s question had let the children to forget about their original plan to get to know everything about clothes and washing and they asked after Castle Black, the Lord Commander Edd Tollet and their fight. Sam and Melassa wanted to know about Jon’s and Sam’s time at the wall, and Jon smiled how they drank up everything he told them. Apparently, Sam and Gilly somehow had made Jon, the good friend of Samwell Tarly, the hero of all of Sam’s experiences at the wall and beyond. That was probably why they kept correcting his tales. Jon ate his bread with relish and Ghost munched on the bones, Olyvar had added to the tray.

Little Sam had brought a book and soon the children were debating about the customs of the summer Islanders that were described in the book. Little Sam obviously enjoyed the attention when he told his friends that the Summer Islanders cut their skin, producing bags of skin and put ash under their skin, so that their skin would get patterned. The children listened with a mixture of fascination and disgust, and when Sam showed them the pictures in the book, Jon was fascinated as well. Eddard and Rickon were crestfallen when Jon could not answer any questions about this peculiar custom of the Summer Islanders and he told them that they should ask Sansa who at least had seen one Summer Islander at the court in King’s Landing. _Why do they get the idea, I should have the answers to these questions. I must have a word with Sam about that. He can’t just tell the children that I have an answer, if he has none._ He shook his head silently, and scratched his scalp absentmindedly.

When he had finished his bread, a maid entered to collect his clothes, and the children put the book aside. They returned to their original question about clothes and rounded on the girl. _Poor girl, she won’t know what befell her._ Jon left his rooms with a smile on his lips. He made for the training yard, Ghost at his heels.

Jon had hoped to catch a glimpse of Sansa on the training yard. He saw so little of her lately, and there was always someone around. Sometimes she came to watch the training for a time and it always had an effect. Every man, Jon included, tried his best, when the Lady of Winterfell watched. And if Jon was honest to himself, he basked in her proud smile, if he did well. But today she was not there. He remembered the morning they had stood on the battlements, just before Sam and Gilly came to Winterfell. That brief hour of closeness and love felt like it had happened ages ago. He could hear the admonishing voices of the gods in his head. ‘ _Be steadfast’._ Jon attacked the Hound, his opponent in this round. _Do the Gods have any idea how difficult it is? Do they even know about love, about desire about the ache in my heart?_

Jon was distracted for a second and the Hound managed to hit him. Jon scowled, annoyed, and rubbed his ribs, where the training sword had hit him. _It’s good Sansa didn’t see that._ Ghost snarled.

Brienne who sparred with Alys laughed at his face. “Congratulations”, she told the Hound. “You managed to hit the king, must have been a while since that happened.”

Jon directed his scowling at her, still rubbing his ribs.

“The king had his head in the clouds. He was not paying attention. I’m not sure this should count,” the Hound said.

In a fit of anger, Jon ordered all three to come at him, as if he wanted to prove a point and this time he fought doggedly. They were briefly interrupted when Ghost tried to intervene, and Jon sent him to the side. It was a challenge to stand his ground against them and Jon was glad, when they were interrupted by Podrick before he had to give in.

“Your grace,” his captain said. “There are riders with news from the South.” 

“What news?” Jon asked trying to mask his heavy breathing. He wouldn’t mind Brienne to see him exhausted, but the Hound was another matter.

“They have instruction just to tell you,” Podrick said. “I directed them to the great hall.”

“Who sent them?”

“A friend, they said.”

Jon gave his practice sword to one of the watching squires. A strand of hair had loosened, and he pushed it back, scratching an itch. He waved for a squire to bring him a cloth and wiped some of the sweat away.

Jon sent Brienne to fetch Sansa, and the Hound and Alys followed him. Briefly Jon wondered, if he should send Alys and the Hound away. Messages for him alone might not be for everyone’s ears, but Alys was so curious she would find out anyway and Sansa trusted the Hound. If the riders would not talk in public, he could still order them out.

The two riders were impatient to dispatch their messages, but Jon bade them wait, until Sansa and Brienne entered the hall from the other side. Sansa wore her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head, not the usual rich red tresses partly braided. This hairstyle drew Jon’s attention to Sansa’s neck. _I’d love to lose that knot, stroke her hair and kiss that neck._

As if in answer to his thoughts, Ghost left Jon’s side and padded over to Alysanne, greeting her enthusiastically. Jon followed and shortly pressed Sansa’s hands in a more subdued greeting.

Then he turned to the riders. “State your business.”

The taller of the two came forward and bowed. “Your grace, this is from Tyrion Lannister, hand to Queen Daenerys.”

Jon took the letter and inspected the two seals that depicted a lion and a hand. He showed them to Sansa.

“Should he not use the Queen’s seal as her hand? It must be a private letter.”

He broke the seals and studied the letters. His breath caught in his throat. _That’s bad news._ “What does it say?”, Brienne asked. Jon wondered why her voice sounded so fraught.

“Apparently the war in the South is over. The Dragon Queen has won. Lord Tyrion says that he interceded on our behalf and that Daenerys would overlook the fact that we refused to bend the knee before now. But she is willing to come North and wage war if we do not submit.”

He could see the blood draining from Sansa’s face, but she stayed calm and even scoffed. “She would wage war in the middle of winter. She must be insane.”

Jon passed the letters to Sansa. “It’s subtler than that. She gives us the choice to bend the knee now, but if we have not bent the knee before spring comes, she’ll descend on us. Tyrion says, we won’t have a choice in spring and that this is more than Cersei ever was offered.” Jon frowned. _This needs to be discussed in council. Maybe there is a way to forestall this._

“To Jon Snow, warden of the North, if he wants to be? What kind of address is that?” Sansa sounded angry, while scanning the letter. Jon was glad she left out the part about ‘beloved former wife’. “Apparently neither her not Tyrion have any idea about the White Walkers. They think we fought against Wildlings the last years.” She shook her head.

“He sends his regards to Podrick,” Jon added, addressing his captain of the guards.

Podrick was shook. “What?”

“He says so in his letter.” Jon answered. The smaller messenger bent forward as if to listen to the interesting exchange.

“They don’t believe in White Walkers, but they know Podrick is here?” Brienne asked.

“They might have heard about the Lady Knight and her squire, Brienne. I don’t think you realise how famous you have become.” Sansa mused. She smiled when she saw Brienne’s reaction.

She tilted her head slightly to the side, a gesture Jon knew to mean that she thought. “It’s clever, he tells us, he doesn’t walk blindly, and he tells us that he might have informants here.”

Sansa turned and addressed the Hound with her next words. “If he has informants here they can’t be too good. Apparently, he doesn’t know that we have another Lannister deserter in our midst.”

She handed the letters back to Jon and turned to Brienne and placed a hand on her sworn shields arm. “Tyrion suspects Cersei to have died in the fighting at King’s Landing. He doesn’t say anything about Ser Jaime.”

 _Why would this be important?_ Some unknown message went back and forth between Sansa and her lady knight, but Jon had no idea what this was about. The smaller messenger edged forward even more closely.

Suddenly, Ghost growled, Alys gave a shout of dismay, and Jon turned just in time to deflect the dagger the messenger suddenly had in his hands. But he had reacted a second too late, and the dagger penetrated his leather vest. He had Longclaw out in blink, but Alys had already hurled herself on the messenger and had drawn her own dagger. Even before Ghost had him, she had slashed his throat in vicious stroke. Podrick and Brienne threw themselves on the other messenger.

Somehow everybody was shouting, while Jon felt light-headed when the memory of a dozen daggers suddenly washed over him. His eyes searched for further danger and his vision narrowed. It was as if he could see Olly and Aliser Thorne, the brothers who had betrayed him. His own breathing sounded ragged in his ears. Longclaw in his hand, Jon searched for his traitor brothers. He saw naked steel and put on a fighting stance.

He felt a hand on his arm and heard a voice that penetrated the fog in his brain asking if he was hurt. His vision broadened again. “Sansa,” he whispered. He felt dizzy.

“Are you hurt?”, he heard her voice. She must have asked that several times already. Her voice had a strained ring to it.

Other voices came back as well. The direwolves were still growling at the corpse of the man, the detained messenger was loudly protesting, that he had no idea that the other had been an assassin. Podrick and Brienne were showering him with questions.

And in midst of all the uproar Alys Karstark leaned towards the face of the dead man touching his chin. His face came off and drifted away in smoke. Jon could hear a collective gasp, when another face appeared beneath the one Alys had taken off.

“That was a faceless man.” Alys said. Her voice was steady although Jon could see that her left hand was twitching slightly. He suddenly felt an urge to sit down. He looked for the nearest bench and let himself all on it. He touched his left side with his right hand, where the dagger had cut his vest. He heard Sansa’s gasp, when his hand came away red with blood.


	14. A piece of cloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is stitched up after the attempt on his life. In a way it is torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is another chapter, much Jonsa content.... I hope, you like the tension. But this is of course still slowburn.

The concerned voices mixed up in Jon’s ear. Everybody was making far too much fuss for Jon’s taste. The wound couldn’t be that serious. As far as Jon was concerned, the fact that a faceless man had been sent after him, was a serious business, and he was lucky to have escaped alive. _At least I was fast enough to dodge the stroke. That dagger was meant for my heart._

“Enough,” he finally roared, “Silence.” Everybody’s eyes were on him. “A cloth please.”

Sansa produced a cloth and gave it to him. “Jon, you are hurt, please let me have a look.” Jon pressed the cloth to his side. He shook his head.

“First this messenger”, he said.

“You,” Jon pointed at the messenger. ”Explain yourself! Coming here under the flag of negotiation and then this.”

The messenger was pale as a sheet and did not struggle against Podrick or Brienne. He tried to fall to his knees but Podrick held him in an iron grip, his face grim. The messenger stuttered, and swore that he had no idea that Dave, his comrade had been a faceless man, that he knew of no order of assassination, that he was innocent. He was very close to beg for his life.

Jon heard him out, and then looked at the cloth. There was blood, but not too much. He cut the messenger of with a wave of his hand.

“Alys, how did you know this was a faceless man.” Jon asked. He directed his gaze at her wondering what secrets she harboured. Every time he looked in her eyes, Jon thought that he saw something he knew, but he could never pin it down. _How would she know anything about faceless men when she was prisoner at the Twins for three years, or longer._ Would he ever get to the bottom of Alys’ secret?

The lady Karstark was flustered. “I didn’t. I just wanted to make sure, he was dead.” Her shudder seemed to Jon only to be half-genuine. “He was so fast, he almost got you.”

Jon raised his brows and looked at her for a long time, trying to bore into her soul and see the things she withheld. When he finally broke eye contact he felt drained, as if he had tried to look at the bottom of the sea on a stormy day. _Why did you even touch his face? It could have been by accident, but was it?_

Alys kicked the corpse of the faceless man. “He might have impersonated the messenger for quite some time,” she observed. “It might well be that the other didn’t know anything about it.” She pointed vaguely at the detained messenger, who was frozen in fear.

_And how would you know about faceless man impersonating others? I’ve never heard about that._

It occurred to Jon that there was a good side to all of this. This might give him the opportunity to dodge the question about bending the knee.

He bade Brienne and Podrick to bring the other messenger.  “Ghost” he called. His direwolf came over and Jon concentrated on feeling the connection to his wolf. The hall went out of focus and he made himself aware of all the smells. There was the smell of death on the dead assassin, but underlying was something else, a very faint smell of a dead dear in the ice, that looked like it had been there only a day, but that had also a hint of being dead for much longer. Now, he knew what he needed to search for. Jon gently suggested to Ghost to sniff out the messenger. The faint smell of the faceless man was persistent if not strong. Ghost could smell a whiff of it on Alys Karstark, although as always Alys also smelled somehow familiar. There was no trace of this scent on the living messenger, even when Ghost smelled closely around the prominent waves of fear that radiated from him. When Ghost had finished sniffing, he padded to Jon’s side, giving a short growl to the corpse.

The great hall filled up with people. Obviously, the tale about the King in the North being wounded had been making the rounds, and Jon felt exposed to all these eyes. They meant well, but the Hound and Brienne had to prevent people to come at him. Jon could hear them assuring everybody, that the king was well, that the assassin had been killed, and that there was no need for fear.

Jon looked sternly at the living messenger and said: “I do believe you speak the truth, that you know nothing of this.” The messenger sighed in relief.

Jon waved the protesting voices to silence. “That does not mean that the man who sent you did not know. I want you to be escorted to our borders by three of my own men. Bring this message to your queen and her hand.”

He inhaled deeply. “We do not intend to bend the knee to someone who would sent assassins in our midst, violating guest right and common rules of negotiations. First, your queen must clear herself of this mess, before we even consider anything she says. Be grateful, that we doubt that she or her hand was behind it, and she can thank Cersei for that. Cersei has sent assassins in the past. Tell your queen, that she has wasted her time squabbling about an ugly Iron Chair. If she wants the allegiance of the North, she’d better earn it.”

The hall erupted in cheers and Jon smiled. _The assassin bought us time. Who knows if they’ll even be able to send other messengers._ Jon nodded to Podrick. “Detain him at a safe place, he’ll ride on the morrow.”

He gestured towards the corpse. “And care for that.”

Podrick soon had several willing hands at his disposal. The excitement and disquiet in the hall had died down somewhat when Jon had reached his decision.

“Jon?”, Sansa laid a hand on his arm. She smiled. “Buying some time was a good idea, but please let me have a look at your wound now.”

“Here?”, he asked. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Sansa’s touch pushed all thoughts about faceless men from his mind.

“Just remove your shirt, Jon. I’ll have a look at it.”

She tugged at his sleeve. “Do you feel faint?”, she asked in a low voice. “The dagger might have been poisoned.”

Jon shook his head, although it was a lie. He felt slightly faint, if from the sudden rush of battle alert that had come with the attack or of Sansa’s alluring closeness he could not have said.

“Keep the dagger and give it to Maester Samwell, he can probably say, if it’s poisoned.” Jon ordered.

Under Sansa’s watchful eyes he removed his vest and his shirt. He could feel Sansa’s eyes on him, as if it was a caress. The ache he felt had nothing to do with his wound.

Briefly, he wondered if it would be a good idea, to be so vulnerable in the presence of so many people, but all thoughts fled him, when Sansa sat beside him and bent to examine his chest. She told him to raise his arm, and Jon looked down on Sansa’s red hair knot while she had a look at the wound. The dagger that had been meant for his heart had slipped along his ribcage even through the leather vest and had loosened a strip of skin about the size of the dagger’s blade, but as far as Jon could see the wound was not deep. It didn’t hurt much.

His heart was pounding in his chest in anticipation of Sansa’s touch on his skin. When Sansa’s tender hand probed his skin and she enquired, if he felt anything, he was unable to answer. There was no pain, just a rush of joy at her touch. It was as if the air in his lungs had become lead, as if he suddenly did not remember the simple act of inhaling. His arousal was immediate and painful, and the sudden burst of desire was so intense that he thought that he would never be able to breathe again. He wordlessly shook his head, if in denial about the hurt or as if to tell Sansa that she should stop, he did not know. He put his hands on his knees and pressed, his mind awash with images of Sansa stroking his skin.

Jon fought his way back to coherent thinking. The light of the torches in the hall seemed glaring to him and he could hear the sharp intake of his own breath. He saw that there was a sea of worried faces around him.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I think the dagger might have been poisoned.” Sansa said. Her voice sounded shaken. She was talking to Gilly and Sam, who had joined them. Sam was studying the dagger with a frown.

“Should we do something in case the dagger was poisoned?” Sansa asked Gilly. “Suck out the wound or something?”

Before Jon could contemplate on what he would do, if Sansa sucked his wound, Gilly scoffed.

“And have two people poisoned instead of one? We’d best let the wound bleed for a while. It is not deep and not dangerous. This will help”, Gilly bent down and probed Jon’s wound with a stingy liquid, which made Jon wince. This time he felt the pain and he could see that blood welled up again.

“We’ll stitch him up later.” Gilly handed him a cloth. “Put this just beneath the wound, so you don’t stench the bleeding.”

“I can’t see anything obvious,” Sam said. “But there are some tests that I can do.”

He turned to Jon. “Do you feel dizzy, nauseous or anything alarming?”

“I’m fine.” Jon assured them again. _I can hardly tell him that all I want at this moment is Sansa touching me again._

Jon caught Alys watching his torso. Suddenly she blurted out:

“Did you get these when you died?”, she asked. She pointed at the scars that were all over his chest.

Jon shrugged, and he could see that she was troubled by his calm confirmation of the fact, that he had been dead.

There was another commotion when the children entered, Olyvar at their heels. When they arrived Olyvar fell to his knees before Sansa and dragged Hoster with him. Jon almost didn’t catch what he said with the children enquiring after his health on top of each other.

“Lady Sansa, this is all my fault.”

“How could this be your fault?”, Sansa wanted to know.

“I should have paid more attention to what the children did.” He hung his head. “They were so intent on washing things, I realised too late that Hoster tried to wash the enchanted cloth you made for his grace to protect him.”

Jon could see that Sansa was bewildered, but she tried to rule her face. Jon was so accustomed to his lucky charm he kept with him as a reminder of Sansa and Winterfell, that he had almost forgotten, that Sansa did not know about it.

He vividly remembered the day he had taken that little piece of cloth. He had been so angry with Sansa, for marrying Littlefinger even if it was to trap him, for letting him sleep with her, for getting pregnant. He had not taken his leave that day, and yet he had desperately wanted to have something of her, even if it was an unfinished piece of embroidery.

“There is no need to be alarmed, Olyvar,” Jon said. _How to explain this to Sansa with everybody listening._ “I only take this when we leave Winterfell. Surely, the assassin has nothing to do with Hoster washing it.”

He looked at Sansa and desperately willed her to not show that she had no idea what he was talking about. Jon knew how superstitious his men were about his lucky charm. Jon couldn’t even remember when the first rumour about its protective qualities had started. Apparently, it had rubbed off on Olyvar, who still looked downtrodden.

“But it’s ruined,” he almost wailed.

Sansa laid a hand on his arm. “Olyvar, would you kindly show me the lucky charm.”

Olyvar produced a piece of cloth, that might have been Jon’s charm. It was wet, and the threads had loosened and the direwolf was barely recognizable. Jon could hear a collective intake of breath.

_What a coincidence. Poor Olyvar and Hoster, nobody is going to believe that this ruined cloth had nothing to do with the attempt on my life._

Sansa took the cloth from Olyvar’s shaking hands. She shot an unreadable look at Jon. Jon pleaded with his eyes. _Please, if you can think of something. I don’t want to post guards at Olyvar’s door. It’s tough enough for him._ Sansa fingered the cloth.

“Hoster, you tried to wash this.” Her voice was friendly. Hoster nodded, very subdued and very unhappy.

Sansa reached out and helped him up. “Do you fear that you washed out the protection of the gods?”, she asked.

Hoster nodded again. Jon could see that there were tears hanging at his eyelashes.

Sansa smiled encouragingly. “Hoster, Olyvar, do you think the Gods who have looked over us since the White Walkers returned would withdraw their support over this?”

Sansa stood up and spoke loudly for all to hear. “Believe me, if I could stitch protection into a piece of cloth, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it.” She shrugged.

“But, alas, my needles have no magic.”

She looked closely at the cloth in her hand. She turned to Jon and suddenly her smile became wide and laughter fell from her lips like music.

“You know I have prepared something for you, Jon, and I was waiting for the right opportunity to give it to you. Looks like that moment is now.”

Eddard and Rickon, who had been unusually quiet when their friend was questioned, bounced up now: “Mommy, are you going to give it to him, now?”

They were excited, and Eddard bent to Jon’s ear and spoke in a forced low voice trying to be secretive. But his voice was entirely too loud for a whisper.

“Mommy worked on this while you were gone to the wall and it is really beautiful.”

Sansa had opened her pouch, and she took out something black.

Sansa gave it to him. “Here is a new lucky charm for you, my king. Sadly, I don’t know how to stitch magical protection, but you know that it comes with all my best wishes.”

Jon took it with one hand, since he still held the bandage to his chest with the other hand. His eyes were drawn to Sansa’s face. _How did she manage to save this situation?_ He shook it out and could see that it was a long yet not very broad piece of silk, almost like a scarf. Jon could see white and grey embroidery on it. He heard a collective gasp, when the people around him saw the beautiful handiwork.

Somehow the cloth even glittered a little and when Jon fingered it, he realised that there were occasional silver threads woven into it. He placed it on his knees and scratched his still itching scalp with his right hand.

The scarf was exquisite. A great weirwood tree was depicted in the middle, the branches reaching out over the length of the scarf. On the left side of the tree there were six direwolf pups. Jon immediately recognized them as the pups he had found in the late summer snows many years ago. On the right side of the tree, there was an adult Ghost and the new direwolves they had been granted by the gods three years ago.

Eddard and Rickon were pressing against him. “Uncle Jon, explain, please, mommy wouldn’t tell us, what it all means.”

Jon fought with his emotions. _It means she loves me. This is a lady’s favour, and she wants me to have it._ He took a close look at Ghost’s eyes that had a shimmer to them as well as the leaves of the weirwood tree. He ran his fingers over the fabric. _She took her hair. It’s her hair, that’s why it shimmers._ His throat closed up with unshed tears. He swallowed, his breathing sounded loudly in his ears and his blood rushed through his body. He pressed the bandage Gilly had given him to his side when he felt that the blood was still trickling slowly. He looked up and his eyes met Sansa’s, and he knew that he could not have prevented his feelings to show in his face, even if he had wanted it. _O Sansa, I love you, I love you._

“Please, be careful, Jon,” Sansa said, her smile had a hint of sadness and longing. “Do not let any blood come on the cloth. It is so difficult to remove blood.”

When Jon found his voice, it sounded rough and deep. “Hoster, Sam, Melassa, come here as well, you might want to know about our history.” Sam and Melassa were immediately at his side, but Hoster came closer very slowly, having a hard time believing that he was let of the hook so easily.

Jon smiled at him encouragingly. “Just don’t you get the idea to wash this. We wouldn’t want this to be turned into a rag.”

Jon and the children put their heads together. He pointed at the pups and explained. There were Ghost, Greywind, Summer and Nymeria, Lady and Shaggydog. They all had different shades just like it had been. Lady had a shining coat, she was a bit to the side looking very well behaved. Nymeria even had burrs in her fur. It was a playful scene of the pups playing, small snowflakes were all around them. Jon told his nephews and their friends about his lost siblings. He was not a good story teller usually, but somehow everybody listened when he told the children, not about the tragedies that had befallen his family, but about how happy they had been with the pups. On the other side Sansa had depicted the adult direwolves, and Jon heard himself explain again, how Summer and Nymeria were named after the lost wolves and how they hoped that Bran and Arya would return one day. On that side the direwolves were not playing, Jon could see that. They were preparing for a hunt and Ghost was the pack leader. Eddard and Rickon tentatively ran their finger over the images of their own wolves, the white legs of Socks and Gloves standing out against the black background.

 “You should put ash under the skin, before you stitch it,” little Sam suddenly said. Jon could see that he was looking at his wound fascinatedly. “Or that black grinded powder of dragonglass. Then you would have a really interesting picture on your skin, just like one of the Summer Islanders.”

“What did you just say?” Gilly asked.

“I said, the king should put some of this dragonglass powder under his skin, then he could paint a picture,” little Sam said. “Like in that book, it’s called tatus or something like that.”

Gilly looked dumbfounded. “Dragonglass powder,” she said. “Under the skin…” Jon could see her pondering that. He himself had the feeling that an unformed idea floated in his head, that he should know, that little Sam just had found a solution for one of their problems.

But the idea receded to the back of his mind, when Sansa sat on the bench beside Jon. “I think your wound can be stitched now,” she said loudly. Jon could see that she had a needle ready in her hand.

She bent to speak very low into his ears. “I want you to come to my chambers later, there is something urgent we have to discuss, and I want a full explanation how a rag I used for practicing came into your possession as a lucky charm.”

Jon’s heart was speeding up, beating in his ears, when he looked at Sansa’s face. Her eyes had a mischievous and amused glint to them, but he could not dwell on the meaning of that, when she bent her head and without forewarning put a needle to his skin.


	15. A secret tryst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Alys' thinks that Jon and Sansa arranged a secret tryst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here another chapter of my slowburn..... Too much work a the moment and not enough time to write fic. So sorry, it took me so long to update. I first wanted to finish this particular arc before posting, so there will be another two chapters following pretty soon.

Alys had heard it clearly, even if Sansa had only whispered, she had been standing close enough: “ _I want you to come to my chambers later, there is something urgent we have to discuss”._ _Discuss…. Discuss… Discuss is not what is on their mind._ She had been unsure if there was any truth about the rumour she had first heard on her way to Winterfell. There was only a tiny piece of doubt left now. How Jon had looked at her! _She gave him a favour, she gave him a favour! Why does nobody see it?_

While Jon was being stitched up the noise in the Great Hall finally died down. Why did nobody say anything about Sansa’s cloth? Alys stood in a daze, her emotions battling inside her. _All that talk about how they want Bran and Arya back. It’s a lie. Bran and Arya would be angry about this. They can’t want them back. Why do the lords not see this? It’s staring them in the face and yet Podrick has the nerve to tell me to shut up about Jon and Sansa being lovers. They must be. The looks they shared. How can they do this? What has happened to Jon? It’s disgusting. He never even liked embroidery and stitching. What shall I do about this?_ She fingered her face that felt strangely numb.

King Jon looked at her expectantly. Alys realised that he had asked something. The blood was rushing in her ears. _Why did I not hear his question when I could hear Sansa’s whispering just fine?_

“Your grace?”, she asked.

Jon looked puzzled. “Thank you, Lady Alys, for saving my life.” Alys suddenly could feel her face again, when blood rushed to her cheeks.

Alys tried to brush it off and shrugged.

“You acted so very fast,” Lady Sansa said. “Today you have proven your worth and loyalty, Lady Alys. The King and I would be honoured, if you would accept a place in his guard. I’ll prepare a doublet for you embroidered with the Stark colours.”

“No,” Alys shouted. “I don’t want some fancy embroidery. Everyone’s in danger and you sew and stitch. You can’t save the King with a piece of cloth. A doublet won’t save me from a knife.”

Lady Sansa was taken aback: “I never said it would,” she protested, uncertain about what had instigated Alys’ outburst.

“You dawdle your time away with these ladies’ occupation. This is useless and stupid. I don’t know why anybody would want a doublet. I certainly don’t.”

The sudden silence in the hall told Alys that her wording must have been very amiss. Podrick looked at her as if she had grown horns. Lyanna Mormont’s mouth fell open. King Jon looked livid and Sansa… The blood had left her face and she looked as if someone had struck her in the face.

King Jon looked sideways at Sansa and then spoke very slowly.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you, Lady Alys, that you would use such words against Lady Sansa. Let me assure you that many men would want a place in our guard and a doublet made by the Lady of Winterfell herself, and they would be honoured. Saving my life does not mean that you have leave to insult Lady Sansa. For now, I think you should leave this hall and I certainly don’t want to set eyes on you today. Next time, think, before you refuse an honour many others would gladly accept.”

Alys stared at him. _He sends me away. He sends me away for her sake._ She didn’t move. She couldn’t move.

When she continued to stand rooted, King Jon stood up. He brushed of Lady Sansa’s hand that reached out to him. His mouth was set in a grim line.

“Do I have to repeat myself?”, he asked.

Alys became suddenly frightened. She had never seen him so angry. Not, when she had refused to answer questions about the Twins, not when she had broken the line in their fight against the White Walkers north of the wall. She turned on her heels and fled. Thankfully, the tears only began to flow, when she was outside.

She retreated to a corner in the stables, that had been a hiding for Arya Stark when she had been in trouble. Jon had often found her there, coaxing her out. _Jon won’t look for me now. He has forgotten his little sister Arya, he takes Sansa’s side. Even if I had my own face, he probably would take her side. That look! His eyes were full of desire!_

She shuddered. Who would have thought that there was no difference between Lannisters and Starks. That the King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell were guilty of the same revolting incest as the blond Lannister twins. Alys swallowed hard and tasted bile. She felt physically sick. What would Arya do? What would her father think about that?

_They’ve only rebuilt Winterfell to make it a place of sin. And nobody seems to see it. The boys probably are Jon’s, a dead husband can be very convenient. Everybody avoids my questions, they all pretend nothing is amiss. Does nobody see how wrong this is?_

Alys stood up. Nobody cared enough about Alys Karstark to look for her. She angrily scrubbed her face. _You don’t want me in the Hall. See what I care!_

She took the way to the kitchen, drawing on Arya’s memories and managed to pilfer some bread. She didn’t need to get food officially.

She wandered around on Winterfell’s grounds, munching on her food. At some time, she reached the heart tree. For a long moment she just stood there. Since the Gods had shown her a glimpse of the future and spoken to her, she had not visited here again. She inched closer and tentatively put her hand on the bark. _I could use some direction. Why did you tell me to keep being Alys Karstark? Do I even care, that a Stark has to die? It could be Sansa. Don’t you even care, that they are lovers? Who are you anyway?_

The leaves rustled in the wind, but there was no voice echoing in her head. Everything was silent.

Alys shook her fist at the tree. “I won’t stand beside and just watch that.”

_Sansa told Jon to come to her chamber. If I catch them, I can expose them._

She did not wander any longer. Her stride became determined. She easily found her way, she peeked into the hall. Jon and Sansa were gone. Carefully she made her way to Jon’s chamber, but the door stood open and she could see, that he was not there.

When she reached the hallway where Sansa’s room was, she came upon Podrick. His usual amiable face quickly set in a frown, when he saw her.

“What are you doing here?”, he asked. “If I were you, I wouldn’t show my face at least for a day.”

A part of Alys noted that Podrick seemed to be genuinely upset, but that would probably help her.

“They took you in, you, a traitor’s daughter, and you had the nerve, the nerve to insult Lady Sansa.” He pointed as his own doublet that had the Stark direwolf sewn onto it.

“My name is Payne, Lady Alys, Payne. A relative of mine was the king’s justice and cut Lord Eddard’s head of, and yet neither Lady Sansa nor the King ever held it against me. She was kind and friendly and I am immensely proud to serve the Starks. How could you reject an honour like that?”

He had not raised his voice, but his hissing certainly seemed very unlike the usual Podrick.

“I could not accept this. I would feel stained.” she blurted out. “Not, when I overheard them arranging for a tryst.”

Podrick looked at her aghast. He poked his finger to her chest. “Lady Alys,” he visibly tried to calm himself.

“Why won’t you stop with this? I really don’t know why you are so obsessed. Everybody knows King Jon and Lady Sansa are close, but your accusation is insane. This is Cersei Lannister speaking. It must have been her who started that befouling rumour in the South. Nobody here in Winterfell had heard about it, before you and the others came here.” He let his hands sink.

Alys hissed back at him. “She gave him a lady’s favour in front of everybody’s eyes and you don’t even see it.”

Podrick glared at her. “I’m not even going to answer that. I swear that, if you don’t stop besmirching the Stark’s honour I’ll challenge you to a duel.”

Alys tried her best to look unimpressed. “You’d lose.”

“I’ll tell Lady Brienne about your questions and your rumours, if you won’t stop this. You won’t beat her.”, he answered.

“If it’s all nothing, where are they now? Where is the King, where is Lady Sansa?”

“They are in Lady Sansa’s chamber, and she told me, they are not to be disturbed.”

“How blind can you be?”, Alys challenged him, frustrated.

Podrick’s face was getting even redder than it had been. “It’s just you. I swear to you, there is nothing to be seen. I’ll prove it to you. Come with me.”

He turned on his heels and strode determinedly to Sansa’s chamber. Alys allowed herself to smirk behind his back. He had reacted like she had expected.

Alys had to run to keep up with him. Podrick stood at the door and stopped for a moment. Whatever they were doing, they were not talking, Alys thought she heard Sansa sigh and there was a muffled grunt that could have been Jon. More even than her first night back at Winterfell, she was prepared to see the worst.

Podrick hesitated. She nudged him. “Doubts?”, she whispered. Podrick glared at her, knocked loudly twice and immediately swung open the door.

Jon was sitting on a chair, but apart from his hair which was in wild disarray and a white cloth around his shoulders, there was nothing indecent about his appearance. Sansa stood behind him, a small comb in her hand. There was a sharp spicy smell prevalent in the room. Both looked up surprised and somewhat flustered.

Alys felt the the blood rushing to her cheeks. Whatever this was, it was no tryst.

“Podrick,” Lady Sansa scolded. “I told you, we were not to be disturbed.”

Podrick reacted faster than Alys. “Lady Alys wants to apologize.”

He turned around and gave her a triumphant grin, that clearly said, ‘I told you so’. Alys glared at him.

She gave a short bow to hide her red face.

“I am sorry.”

King Jon scowled, but Lady Sansa nodded graciously. “Apologies accepted. But I would appreciate it, if you would leave now. The King and I have important business to discuss.”

With as much calm as she could muster Alys backed outside the room and drew Podrick with her. Halfway down the hallway, Podrick first chuckled and then burst outright into laughter.

“The King in the North has important business, not to be disturbed. It was just nits, and Lady Sansa didn’t want anybody to notice. There you have your secret tryst.” Alys hated that his laughter had a relieved ring to it.

“Come on,” he clapped her on the back. “We’ll have a drink to that.”

Alys could not escape his amiable mood and she came along, even though her doubts were not resolved.


	16. A Brawl in the Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podrick and Alys have ale in the Great Hall. Opinions on Jon and Sansa differ and things escalate quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obliged to tell you that this chapter has been in my mind for a long time.... It was set in my mind before season 7 aired and 'knitting gate' happened. So this has nothing to do with Lyanna Mormont's speach in the Winterfell hall in season 7.   
> Some of the things are at least imho things Arya aka Alys would say. Summer is approaching and work gets less, so I hope to update all my fics more regularly.  
> Comments are appreciated.... like really appreaciated.

“If I know Lady Sansa at all, she’ll have all of us treated for nits, before the week is over.” Podrick chuckled in renewed amusement when they had reached the hall.

There were still quite a lot of people in the hall, and Alys could see that the Frey was talking to Lady Lyanna and Samwell Tarly. He drew lines on the table with a wet finger to show her something.

Podrick snatched two mugs of ale and bade Alys to sit beside him. Alys did not really want to sit, certainly not side by side with the Frey or Lady Lyanna who frowned when Podrick approached. Lady Lyanna had stared at her as hard as the rest of the hall, when she had refused the doublet.

Podrick made an appeasing gesture in the general direction of Lyanna.

“She apologized,” he said.

Alys could feel blood creeping in her cheeks. _Again_.

She raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look. I’m sorry, Lady Sansa was insulted.” Lyanna’s frown softened somewhat.

”But needlework it is a completely useless skill. You don’t need needles in a fight.” That was only the truth, but still Lyanna’s face had hardened again.

“You are completely daft,” Olyvar said.

Samwell harrumphed. “Peace,” he said. “You realise, Lady Alys, that every army that is not sufficiently clothed in winter, would be lost, don’t you? And you know, that you need needles for that?”

Alys scowled at him.

“I am not daft! Of course, I know that. But you don’t need all this fancy embroidery. Nor a shawl with fancy scenes that doesn’t keep your warm in the night.”

“Alys is not the first to be jealous of Lady Sansa’s exquisite needle work. I can relate. It is exasperating,” Lyanna remarked offhandedly.

“I am not jealous of her needlework,” Alys protested. “That is ridiculous.” _They just did not understand._

“Alys,” Samwell said. “Do you want us to stop eating cooked food, or listening to music or playing games together? Or reading books?”

Alys had no answer to that. She shook her head.

Sam gestured for her to sit. “If we don’t have company and beauty and show that we care for each other, we could as well just tear the wall down and be done with it. I wouldn’t want to live in a world without books.”

“But don’t you find useful things in your books, information we can use against our enemy.”, Alys asked.

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Do you have any idea, how the spirit of the men soar when they fight under a banner that means something?”

“Do you even know, how important that lucky charm is?”, Podrick added.

Alys felt her knees giving way and sat down with a thump.

Lady Lyanna gave her a pat on her hand. “We all had a real scare with that faceless man,” she remarked. “We are all on the edge. You are tough as a bowstring. Relax a little.”

Alys was grateful for the ale. She took little sips and let her thoughts wander and tried to process everything they had said. She listened only with half an ear to the talk of the others. They were discussing catapults and if dragonglass spears could be thrown with a catapult. Podrick was chiming in, but Alys was lost in her thoughts. She tried to think it through. Twice she has suspected that something was off with Jon and Sansa, and twice her suspicions had not been confirmed. Still, her suspicion would just not go away.

_That I did not catch them today, does not mean that I could never catch them. It was a favour, a favour, not some stupid lucky charm._

_It would be very much like Sansa to get rid of nits in secret though._ Deep down Arya Stark remembered that Sansa had been mortified when their mother had once discovered nits on the children’s heads and had ordered them all to come to her for treatment, all but Jon of course. Sansa had protested that she was a lady and that she would not have any nits, but their mother had been mercyless. For ten days, she had combed them thoroughly and relentlessly. Arya did not remember who had treated Jon’s nits. He must have had them as well and somebody must have taken care of them.

She tried to remember and therefore it took her a while to realise that the others had changed the subject and that Podrick now told everybody that King Jon and Lady Sansa had ‘important business’. He was quite a story-teller and he had them all laughing by the time he finally revealed that the business were nits.

“He must have gotten it from the children. Children who play together, usually trade nits.” Samwell said. “Gilly and Lady Sansa have been preparing some new oily concoction the whole morning.”

He chuckled. “I guess, Gilly will check my hair as well. Just the thought of nits makes my scalp tingle.” He scratched his head, and they all laughed. Even Alys felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, but it went sour when Podrick was carried away by the good mood and told how Alys had suspected Jon and Sansa to have a secret tryst. He and Lyanna laughed again, heartily, but Samwell did not. Alys thought he looked shaken.

“Alys,” he said, “You really must stop feeding that rumour. You shouldn’t run around in the hallways and just bang the doors in to Lady Sansa’s chambers.”

Alys felt her ire rise. “Why not? If they have nothing to hide, there’s no harm done. And if they are lovers, somebody should do something about it.” She had no control of her voice. She realised with dismay, that she was getting loud again.

Podrick looked at her aghast and angry. “You would do that again? I thought it was clear, that there is nothing, absolutely nothing. Why can’t you leave them in peace.?”

“I think you do not understand, Podrick,” Olyvar mused. “Alys won’t budge. To you, once is enough to prove that there is nothing. But, Alys could barge into Lady Sansa’s chamber everyday and still she would not be convinced.”

Alys stood up, balling her hands into fists at her side. “You should all question this!” she shouted. “That was a lady’s favour. She gave him a favour!”

Olyvar had stood up as well, his face set.

“No, Alys, it is you who asks the wrong questions.” His voice had become louder as well, and they drew attention.

“If it’s true, it is an abomination, a disgrace, the fall of House Stark!” she shouted.

“You should not wonder, if it’s true! That is the wrong question!”, Olyvar answered.

“What would be the right question then?” Alys demanded

“What would you do, if you caught them, as you are so eager to do? What would you do, Alys? How would you react?”

Alys stood dumbfounded. Her mind was reeling. _How dare he. He is a Frey, a Frey!_ They had drawn the attention of the hall. Everyone but them was silent. Samwell looked positively sick.

“What would you do then?” Alys demanded at the top of her voice.

“Have you seen the King, when we fought the White Walkers? Have you really seen him? Don’t you think that he is our only chance against them? Do you truly think he would even fight without Lady Sansa?”

Olyvar had risen as well now. “Regardless of the truth. I certainly would not be eager to walk in onto them. If I would chance upon them I would try to retreat and bloody pretend I saw nothing! And I would hope the king would do the same instead of carving me into two.”

For two heartbeats Alys heard only the rush of blood in her ears. She didn’t even try to calm down, instead she raised her fist and let it connect with Olyvar’s chin.

“Only a Frey could say something as dishonourable as that.” She fisted him again, and he tried to catch her hand. Everything was a blur after that, and after some hits she had the satisfaction that Olyvar fought back. She felt disconnected to the voices around her and she continued to struggle, even after someone held her and tried to restrain her.

“What is the meaning of this?” she heard a familiar voice shout out loud. King Jon stood in the middle of the hall, a commanding presence that seemed to dull the commotion immediately.


	17. Nasty Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to cope with nasty visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is another chapter, maybe a bit on the light-hearted end.... I want to thank anybody who leaves kudos or comments. This helps a lot to give me the feeling, that at least some like the story!

“There was no need to be that secretive about this.” Jon said. “You could have told me, that I have lice, the moment you spotted them.”

Sansa scowled, looking at the result of her latest combing in the nitcomb. Gilly’s concoction had indeed worked well. The lice on the comb were motionless, perhaps even dead.

“You know, I’m quite proud of myself. When I was a child I would have left the hall screaming, and who would have stitched you up, then?” she asked.

Jon chuckled. “Yes, I remember you insisted that you couldn’t have any, when we were children. It was one of the few times, I heard Lady Catelyn shout at you.”

“She made Robb hold me, until she had found a nit and provided me with proof. I was mortified,” she remembered. “Arya teased me for weeks, tickling my neck with anything that came in handy.”

Sansa took a feather from her table and tickled Jon at the back of his neck. “Something is crawling there, Sansa, I think you got them again.”

They both laughed.

“Still,” Jon said. “You might be right, and I got them from the children, but we’ve been away for weeks. I think we should check everyone.”

Sansa sighed. “Gilly would agree. She says, lice are not that harmless, that they transport illnesses…. But there is no way, I let the King in the North run around with lice any longer than necessary. First, I look after me and my family to get rid of these nasty visitors.”

“Did Gilly treat you?”, Jon asked. He almost sounded as if he regretted that. “Is that why you have your hair in a knot?”

Sansa hummed her agreement and worked the comb through another of Jon’s hair strands. Even with Gilly’s oily concoction, Jon’s locks were a nightmare to comb.

“I like the knot. You have a lovely neck.” Jon said.

Sansa felt a blush creeping into her cheeks and before she caught it, a sigh had escaped her lips. _Careful._ _Best not answer that._ Jon’s remark made her painfully aware, that they were alone, which they hadn’t been for weeks. Looking at Jon’ neck, she saw that a flush had crept to his face as well. When he inhaled, his breath sounded loudly in her ears. _I wonder when we will kiss…. And more…_ She was sure that they both were fighting a losing battle, and she knew that it was very dangerous to be alone with Jon. She dreaded the moment, they would give in to the temptation. And she looked forward to it.

While Sansa was busy meticulously searching for the nasty buggers, they discussed the incident with the messengers. Sansa confided to Jon that she would have preferred if Cersei had held on longer. She was not as sure as Jon that the assassination attempt would buy them time with the Targaryen queen, but they agreed that Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons were probably a task for spring.

Sansa concentrated again on the task of combing and controlling the comb for lice. So far she had only found dead lice. _Gilly really is a genius._ Jon did his best to hold still, even though an occasional grunt told her, that although she was careful, she could not prevent from pulling Jon’s hair occasionally. After all when she found nits, she picked at them with her nails and tore them from his hair.

“Gilly says, we have to do this every day for a week.”

Jon made a sound that was difficult to interpret. Then he gave a very elaborate sigh, that to Sansa’s ears sounded fake.

Sansa wondered, if he liked his hair being touched. She indulged herself and smoothed Jon’s hair and tried to salvage the moment. Jon’s closeness, the excuse to touch him. As much as she detested lice, moments like this were so rare.

The door banged open and Alys Karstark banged in, followed by Podrick.

Sansa was angry.

“I told you we are not be disturbed.” She scolded Podrick.

“She wants to apologize”, Podrick said.

Sansa felt a flash of annoyance at the interruption and tried to get rid of Podrick and Alys as fast as possible. Even though she still felt strongly about Alys’ rejection, she accepted the apology, but sent them away again. When they were gone, she bit her lip. _So much for trying to keep the lice a secret._ But the damage was done. The sudden appearance of Podrick had reminded her how difficult it was to be with Jon alone. Her heart sank and her mood deteriorated.

“I think she is jealous,” Jon mused.

“What?” Sansa asked.

“She is so full of anger, insecure despite her skills with a sword. I think she would like to be like you.”

Sansa scoffed and her irritation let the words tumble out of her mouth. “I doubt that. I think the girl is in love with you.”

She bit her lip and would have taken the words back, if she could. _Dangerous, far too dangerous, Sansa. What do you expect Jon will make of that._

Jon laughed, but didn’t say anything.

There was a pause, and Sansa resumed her work on his hair. _I will not ask._

“Everytime I see her, I see her staring at you.” Jon said after a while. “I would say she is jealous of you.”

“I’ve never caught her staring at me,” Sansa said. “Her eyes follow you.”

She stopped for a moment and thought. “But I admit she doesn’t look smitten, not really, just forelorn.”

“Maybe she just wants to belong somewhere?” Jon wondered loudly. “I mean, there must be reason why the Gods told us to treat her like our sister.”

“But, why did she reject the honour to be in our guard then?” Sansa asked him.

Jon turned and looked at her.

“You’re still angry.”, he said.

Sansa let her hands drop. “Yes,” she admitted. “It takes me hours to make one of these doublets.”

Jon smiled, and she playfully hit him with the comb.

He turned again and spoke into the thin air in front of his face. “I love your needlework,” he said.

“If you want to know how long it took me to make this shawl, I’m not going to tell you, or only if you tell me, how a piece of ragged cloth stitched for practice became a lucky charm I made with magic.”

Sansa could see that blood rushed to Jon’s head. The part of his neck, she could see was redder than before.

“Remember when I was so angry with you just after you killed Littlefinger?”

“Hmmm. You left Winterfell for months and didn’t even say goodbye,” Sansa said.

“I know,” Jon reached behind his back and took her hand to give an all too short squeeze.

“I didn’t say goodbye, but I wanted to have something with me as a remembrance. I took this from your sewing basket.”

“So, it was a practice piece. How did this become a lucky charm?” she asked.

It was perhaps good that Jon was not looking at her. Even so, his words came with pauses.

“Podrick is to blame. We were on a dangerous mission against some of the Ironborn after all and he…“ Jon hesitated. “One morning he caught me looking at the cloth, when I was thinking about how I had left you and that you were pregnant. I thought I might die without ever reconciling with you … I didn’t know what else to tell him.”

Sansa had stopped. Her hand was hovering over Jon’s hair.

“You know, I married him to save you, to save us.” _I should stop. I should change the subject. This is too dangerous._ But that was only a part of Sansa. Another part or her wanted very much to know. _Did you love me, even then? Do you love me?_ She bit her lip.

She could clearly hear Jon’s breath.

“I know. Still, I was so angry.”

“Are you angry still?”, Sansa asked. Her voice sounded flat in her own ears.

Jon shook his head.

“If Littlefinger was alive and would stand before me I’d still kill him with my own hands, even if it would have meant losing the Knights of the Vale. But to wish for that, would also mean that we wouldn’t have Eddard and Rickon. I can’t even try to imagine that.”

Sansa resumed her work on Jon’s hair.

“Neither can I,” she admitted. She chuckled softly. “Sometimes I think, life should be less complicated.”

Jon nodded. “And yet sometimes I think it is very easy. I just have to keep you safe, you and the children, and that is all there is.”

“Sometimes, that is enough.” Sansa said. She did not dare to say more. They were treading on thin ice as it were.

“So, how long did you work on that wonderful new lucky charm.”, Jon asked

Sansa wondered, if Jon knew she had used her own hair for Ghost’s red eyes and the weirwood leaves. She had seen him fingering the red threads.

“Honestly, I couldn’t say,” she answered. “I made it while you were at the wall, and since I worked on it for many hours, I couldn’t keep it a secret from the children.”

“How did you make the red leaves? They shine like burnished copper.” Jon asked.  Sansa licked her lips. _If I tell him, what will he say?_

But they were interrupted again, when the door banged open and Podrick barged in, again.

Sansa scowled at him. “Podrick”, she shouted. “What by the Gods is wrong with you today?”

Podrick panted heavily. “Your grace, there is a brawl in the hall. Olyvar and Alys are at each other’s throats and I can’t stop them. Others are joining the brawl, it is a mess.”

Jon jumped up and Sansa barely managed to snatch the cloth from his shoulders. He should look dignified, even separating fighing idiots. Jon ran with Podrick and Sansa followed hastily. She slowed down and tried to step more dignified only when they had almost reached the hall. She heard Jon shout and when she entered the hall after him, every man and woman in the hall was frozen in place, somehow all looking guilty. _What happened here?_ Even amiable Podrick seemed to be angry. Sansa searched the people in the hall. Brienne was nowhere in sight and Lyanna Mormont looked at the floor as if she was ashamed.

To her dismay Sansa saw that Alys was bloodied. A trail of blood was slowly running from her right temple, and Sansa could see that her lip had split. The Hound held Alys, but she couldn’t even tell, if he was supporting her or restraining her.

Sansa ran over, all her anger at Alys forgotten. She gestured wildly at the hound to release her. Alys stared at her dumbfounded, and Sansa worried that she had hit her head. She took Alys’ hand.

“Are you all right?”, she asked, worried. Blinding anger took hold of her.

Alys hand still in hers, she turned. “That I must see something like that in Winterfell. I am ashamed.” Her voice threatened to topple over.

“Who did this? Who was such a craven that he would hit a woman?” She felt tears pricking at her eyes, and she sucked in breath raggedly. In a flash she saw herself, much younger at the mercy of Joffrey’s kingsguard.

Her question was met with silence and she clenched her fists. Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Sansa’s gaze fell on Olyvar. If anything, he looked worse than Alys. His left eye had begun to swell shut and he would sport a purple eye for the next week. She glared at him.

“Did you hit Alys?”, she demanded.

Olyvar nodded, what she could see of his face looking miserable.

Sansa shook her fist at him. “What is wrong with you? How dare you?”

“Lady Sansa,” the Hound spoke up. “Lady Alys struck first.”

“That’s barely an excuse. Olyvar is a head taller! I don’t care if Lady Alys is a fighter. He should not have hit back.” Sansa scowled and turnd to Alys. “Is that the truth?” Alys did not answer, she just stared at her.

“Someone fetch Maester Samwell. I think she has a concussion.”, Jon said. He had come to her side.

Alys whispered something, but Sansa did not catch the words.

“Why did she strike you?”, Jon asked Olyvar.

Strangely, Olyvar blushed a deep and alarming shade of red, and sunk his head, afraid to meet her or Jon’s eyes. Sansa looked around, but nobody seemed ready to answer her.

 _I’ll get to the bottom of this._ She was just about to demand an explanation again, when Lady Lyanna clearing her throat caught her attention. With the silence so thick in the hall, it sounded oddly loud.

“Lady Sansa, Your Grace,” Sansa did not remember to have ever seen Lyanna that uncomfortable.

“Yes,” she encouraged her.

“Olyvar Frey reminded us about what is important in the wars to come. His loyalty puts us all to shame. We shouldn’t need to be reminded about what it means to be loyal by a boy from the Riverlands.” Lyanna’s voice was raw, but her eyes were searching Sansa’s face as if she was wondering about something only Sansa could answer.

Sansa turned to Alys again, and she saw that the girl was fighting tears.

“But why would that be a reason to strike Olyvar?”, she wanted to know.

“I hit him, because he is right,” Alys wailed. She lost her fight with the tears. “He told me that I’m just jealous of your needlework. That’s when I hit him.”

For a tiny moment Sansa was lost. _Why would she be so upset about my needlework?_ She touched Alys at the shoulder. _She just wants to belong._ She took a step closer and closed her arms around the younger woman and with a loud sob, Alys pressed herself to Sansa and cried into her neck.

Sansa made low sounds like she did with the twins, when they were upset, and stroked Alys’ back. It took Alys a long while to get hold of herself and Sansa wondered if her face was dissolving in all the tears and if her dress would get salt stains.

Around them the awkward silence came to an end, when Jon ordered everyone who had fought to apologize and told servants to fetch ice from outside for “Olyvar’s spectacular purple eye” and everyone else who had need of it.

After a while, Sansa saw with dismay that there were tiny white dots on Alys’ light brown hair, but she held on to the crying girl, until the flood of tears finally came to an end with a string of hiccups. Sansa loosened her hold.

“If you would still give me a doublet, I would be very honoured to accept it, Lady Sansa.” Alys whispered.

Sansa smiled encouragingly at the girl. “Come with me to my chambers then, if you feel up to it, so that I can take the measures.” It would be a good opportunity to do something about the nits without humiliating the girl further.

Before she left the hall, Alys trailing behind her, she crooked a finger and waved Podrick to her side. “Everyone is to report either to me or to Gilly and Maester Samwell.” If lice wanted to take over Winterfell they had not counted on Sansa Stark, and if she had to comb each and every member of the household.


	18. Almost feeling like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alys almost feels like she has come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a filler chapter, but it is important for setting up the next greater arc which will involve the Vale.

Alys tried to surpress the urge to scratch at her scalp. Ever since Lady Sansa had discovered the nits in her hair, she was very much aware of the nasty little buggers. She wondered if it would be enough to will them away. If she was honest to herself, she could admit that she liked being treated by Lady Sansa. It evoked memories of the mother Arya Stark had known. Catelyn Stark had diligently combed her children’s hair, careful not to hurt them in the process, and the way Lady Sansa always took a strand of her hair and held onto it, so that the nitcomb would not pull her hair reminded Alys very much of this childhood memory that was buried deep down.

Yesterday afternoon, even King Jon had joined them in Sansa’s chamber and they had talked about the Dragonqueen in the South, Lord Tyrion and what to expect in the Spring. Jon had been quite uncaring about it. He seemed to think that they only had a small chance to survive the winter and that it might be years until spring. Sansa was more hopeful. She seemed to think that Tyrion, Daenerys’s hand might be reasoned with and thought it was better to at least pretend that the assassin had not been sent by the Targaryen Queen.

Alys had bitten her tongue. She thought that the assassin was sent to ensure that a Stark would die. _A Stark must die._ and her steps now led her to the weirwood tree she had avoided after her first day back in Winterfell. Maybe the Gods had an answer to that question.

When she reached the tree, she hesitated only for a moment, before she laid her hands on the bark.

_I am here. Why did that assassin come? What will happen if I shed my face? Will the next assassin be after Sansa? Or me? What shall I do?_

Touching the tree, she realised that she yearned to become Arya again. She wanted to sit with Jon and Sansa every evening. She wanted Sansa to tell her stories, she wanted Jon to banter with her, like he had done as a child. She still was not sure, what to make of the obvious intimacy of Jon and Sansa, and she wondered if she would feel at home, if she disclosed herself to be Arya. But in one respect, Olyvar had shaken her confidence about what was true and false, what was good and bad. Whatever was behind the rumours, Alys had decided that she might still want to know, but that she did not want to kill Jon and Sansa for it. Whatever feelings they shared, Alys would not act if she found out. Not, if it meant the death of her siblings.

She wanted to ask the Gods about Jon and Sansa, but she did not dare. Not on her first visit after such a long time. They might be angry after all.

She heard the wind whisper in the branches of the tree and for a moment she felt as if someone had brushed her cheek with a tender stroke. It was just a strand of hair that had loosened though. Alys sighted. It did not seem that there were answers to be had today. The Gods were not approachable any time, that much she had learned from Jon and Sansa talking about them.

 _I’m really sorry. I apologize._ Maybe this would help. The Gods had not made a vengeful impression on Alys, but one could never know with Gods who knew how to look behind her face.

Just, when she was about to turn, she suddenly had the impression of a presence, or an echo of a presence in a room somebody had left not long ago. As if a dress was lying on a chair and still held the warmth and the smell of the woman who had recently taken it off.

She saw the same vision she had seen at her first day in Winterfell. A man in Stark colours standing above her in a window, his face worried, on her back one of Sansa’s children. This time she had a better look at her own hands that held tighly on to a rope. Her nails looked better groomed than anytime in her life, but they were clearly Alys’ hands.

 _Is this something I have to do? Is this in the future?_ She guessed this answered the question if she could shed her face.

She concentrated very hard, when she thought she heard a tiny echoing whisper.

_‘Be steadfast and alert. I can’t talk for a while’._

And then even fainter. ‘ _Soon, though, soon. Home. Winterfell.’_

Alys fervently reached towards the voice. She concentrated very hard, but she could not catch the last words.

Did they mean, that she could revert to being Arya soon, that she could really come home? What did they mean about being steadfast?

In frustration she hit the bark o the tree, forgetting all about her caution of talking with the Gods.

“What do you mean?”, she shouted out loud.

She almost lost her footing when she heard King Jon behind her.

“Half of the time I have no idea what they mean as well.”

Alys sucked in her breath. ”You startled me, your grace”

The King shrugged. “So, I gathered,“ he smiled. “What did they tell you?”

“To be steadfast and alert.” Alys grumbled.

“That’s what they tell me most of the time.” The King sighed. “Although I must admit, I know what they mean about staying steadfast.”

He didn’t elaborate on that and Alys wondered if he meant feelings he should not have. But she pushed the thought away. She had promised herself to not delve into that hole again.

“Their voice was so faint. It was hard to listen, they said something about not being able to talk for a while.” She shook her head. She did not mention ‘soon’, ‘home’ or ‘Winterfell’, the words she had heard at the end.

“That is strange, they are Gods. Shouldn’t they be able to talk all the time?”, she asked in and afterthought.

“Lady Sansa and I have also experienced long times of silence,” the king said. “I’ve grown accustomed to it. But never before they told me, that they won’t be talking or can’t talk. This is worrying.”

“I’m sorry. I did not want to add to your worries. You have enough.”

“It makes me wonder, what happens at the wall. I had a raven from the Lord Commander only two days ago, but I fear that the Long Night is almost upon us.”

The King flexed his sword hand and seemed to hesitate. It took Alys a moment to understand. She blushed.

“I leave you to your prayers.” She gave a slight bow and left. It was time for her session of nit-picking anyway.

When she came to Lady Sansa’s chamber, she announced her presence to the guard. When she entered, Lady Brienne was already undergoing meticulous treatment. Gilly was there as well, and she treated her own daughter.

Brienne made a face as if this was somehow worse than the training yard, and Lady Sansa teased her about her courage in battling the nits and lice. Alys was invited to sit and she took a chair, turned it and sat with her legs on either side of the chair.

Lady Sansa shot her a look, as if she wanted to comment on her unladylike seating, but a look was all Alys got. Alys took the opportunity to talk with Brienne for the first time, since she had arrived in Winterfell. She was interested to hear the story of the warrior woman who had bested the Hound – although Alys could not admit that she knew that. She was astonished to hear that Brienne had been saved from certain death by Jaime Lannister of all people and she was even more surprised when Lady Sansa shortly pressed Brienne’s shoulder when the Lady knight talked about her time with the Kingslayer. When it was Alys’ time to be combed, she felt more relaxed when she had in years. Brienne even stayed to continue their chatter.

“My mother used to comb me the same way,” she told Sansa. There could be no harm in confiding this little detail.

“Your hair has grown, Lady Alys,” Sansa remarked. “If you want me to, I can cut it for you. I cut Lady Brienne’s hair as well.”

Alys had already noticed that Brienne’s haircut fitted her very well and seemed to be practical.

“Would that help with never getting nits again,” she asked.

She heard Gilly scoff.

“Length of hair has nothing to do with it.”

Sansa laughed. “I would abolish curls though.”

“Did you have trouble with the King’s hair again?”, Gilly asked.

Alys imagined Sansa’s cheeks to redden just at the height of her cheeks. She did not turn to check though.

“There are some people with curls. It’s so much more difficult. Alys’ hair is easy.”

Lady Sansa’s chamber was busy today. After Gilly had finished her daughter, it was Podrick who had to endure the treatment, and he and Alys sat facing each other. Alys looked at her lap. She had not managed to reestablish her easy rapport with Brienne’s squire.

Just when Sansa had finished with Alys, and she stood up, the door opened, and the King came in. He had a raven’s scroll in his hands.

“I have grievous news,” his mien was serious.

“Your cousin, the Lord of the Vale, has grown seriously ill and he sends his heir, a certain Harold Hardyng on his way to Winterfell. He wants to ensure that our alliance will hold in case he dies.”


End file.
